


For Old Times' Sake

by hchannibloom (bleepin_ufo), MaddyHughes



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alana torture, F/F, F/M, Friendship, Hannibloom only not really, M/M, No seriously so much UST, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-07 15:12:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 29,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7719640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bleepin_ufo/pseuds/hchannibloom, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaddyHughes/pseuds/MaddyHughes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two old friends meet up in Prague...but is it just for old times' sake?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally an RP between @LegoHannibal and @omgalanabloom. Lovingly edited into something resembling readability by MaddyHughes

The card, when it comes to Alana Bloom, is in a thick cream envelope. The address has been printed; the postmark is Chicago. 

It’s a far cry from her usual mail, and she’s somewhat surprised it hasn't been mis-sorted into Margot's correspondence. As she reaches for a silver letter opener and tears open the heavy paper the card falls out face down on the antique desk. 

The perfect writing on the back is in a hand that is entirely and chillingly familiar to Alana, although it's not signed. 

She rises and closes the door of her home office, locking it for good measure. She returns then to read and examine the card. In recent months she's begun to wonder if her obsession with Hannibal is one-sided. Indeed even as Margot had refused to fund Alana's search further, and she settled into a semblance of domesticity, a part of her mind has been restless, wondering at the fare of her once mentor and lover, one who deluded her into believing her his captor. 

The other side of the card is a picture postcard of an astrological clock. It reads:

'Dearest Alana, You have two things that belong to me. I would like to discuss them, if you will, on the anniversary of a harpsichord kiss. If you come alone, you will be safe.' 

Nothing more is written.

The clock she knows. Hannibal always told her of the beauty of Prague, and although she has never been she hung onto his words like the wide-eyed innocent she had once been, counterpoint to his wealth and experience. 

It takes her less than a minute to make her decision. 

Margot will be furious, of course. But Alana is bored with small minds and small problems. 

The next day she purchases her plane ticket in cash, careful to leave no paper trail. As the weeks elapse there are arguments and bruising make up sex but nothing Margot can say or do can deter Alana from her purpose. 

She lands in Prague the morning of that fated day, trailing her small suitcase behind her as she gazes up at the gilt arms of the clock.

Hannibal is sitting at an outside table at café in the Staroměstské náměstí, one that commands a view of the famous medieval astrological clock, sipping a strong Czech coffee. He wears light-coloured trousers, a darker sweater, a casual jacket, sunglasses. His hair is longer than it ever was in Baltimore, his chin silver with stubble; his skin is bronzed. 

He spots Alana immediately from a distance, by her posture: upright, shoulders back, that slightly hip-first stance that always gave her an air of confidence, even when that confidence was put on to hide insecurity or naiveté. 

He smiles. Alana Bloom is no longer naive. But that confidence is as assumed now as it was then. This time it's to cover up fear. But he admires her for it, as he always admired her for it in the past. 

Smoothly, he stands, leaving behind coins for his coffee on the table, and walks across the square to stand behind her, face slightly raised, breathing in through his nose to catch her distinctly remembered scent. He stands behind her for a moment, observing. Then he steps up beside her. 

“Dr Bloom.”

Alana smirks, unsurprised by his ability to sneak up on her in the crowd of tourists. As he turns to face her, she wonders just how long he's been standing behind her. He's a sentimental creature, but she doubts he'd allow himself to feel too much in such a public sphere. 

She takes in his greeting with crimson lips pursed. "Hannibal." 

She feels her heart begin to thrum with excitement and fear. Even in this most public of places she can never feel truly safe around Hannibal. The upshot to that is she feels more alive than she has in many months—not a comfortable thought, but a truth she must acknowledge. 

"You've summoned me. I assume there's a reason." Not that Alana wants her time with Hannibal to be over so soon but his cryptic engagement with her has piqued her curiosity.

His gaze flickers down to her suitcase. “You’ve only just arrived. I know the Verger family flies first class, but you are surely in need of some refreshment.” 

Gently, but with cordial authority, he takes the handle of her suitcase from her and leads her across the square, to the café he has just left. He gestures her into the seat he has vacated, still warm.

Alana allows him to take the case. She’s spent the overnight flight plagued with uncertainty which was only compounded by the complimentary whiskey. 

"I could eat," she confesses as she follows Hannibal across the square and takes the proffered seat. 

Her attire is somewhat more formal than she'd usually don for a transatlantic flight, but Hannibal is special to her, so she's donned a favourite grey boucle suit and red blouse. Her hair is still a dark, fetching bob. 

"Can I trust you to order me something without people in it?" she quips in a low voice. "I could murder some sausage, maybe eggs?" 

She's very good at pretending that dining with Hannibal is the most natural thing in the world. But if that's how he wants to play their encounter for now, she can put his crimes to the back of her mind. 

Ignorance is bliss, even when it's a fallacy. 

He smiles at her. In perfect Czech, he orders from the waiter: grilled klobásy and poached eggs. He remembers that Alana liked them poached, when he would cook her breakfast, Saturday mornings when she would wear his shirt and dip her toast in perfect golden yolks. He orders them both coffee and, for himself, a plate of trdelnik pastry. 

And then he turns his attention to her. “How is the family?”

"About as well as can be expected when you tell your wife you're going to Europe for an unknown period at the start of summer leaving her in charge of a precocious seven year old boy." Her lips curl into a smirk. "Is that what you were hoping to hear?" She shakes her head. "I care for Margot, I do, but she doesn't understand that I get bored shitless without my work."

“Is that what this meeting is, Dr Bloom? Work?” 

"Well that's what I told Margot. But you haven't yet revealed to me whether I lied to my wife or not." 

“I wondered how you would get her to allow you to see me. I didn't think you would go to the extent of deceiving her. You are nothing if not adaptable, Alana,” he says with barely-concealed relish.

"There's no way she would've let me come otherwise. In the end she was pretty insecure about our affair." She sips her coffee, blue eyes peeking up at Hannibal over the rim of the cup. 

Maybe with good reason, Alana thinks.

Hannibal speaks thoughtfully, aware of the connotations of his words. “You have changed in so many ways, Alana, and yet in others, not at all. Your clothes, your hair, your makeup, your job, your life--all different from when you and I were friends. And yet you still use the same shampoo.” He draws in a long breath of it. “I remember the scent of it on my pillow.”

"It was you who triggered all of this. That night in Baltimore. I had to grow up, fast. I had to become stronger or you would've destroyed me." She gives him a sour look. "Life is so complicated now, I almost wish I could be blind again."

“Complicated, Alana? How so? You are beautiful and intelligent; you have a stunning wife and a precious child; you have wealth beyond most people's wildest dreams, and an international reputation—though perhaps for different reasons than you might once have hoped. I should have thought all these complications were welcome ones. What are your regrets, Alana? Why would you wish to be blind?” 

Their food arrives, but Hannibal hardly acknowledges it, he is so focused on Alana.

"Mostly it's the responsibility. To look after my son who was born into this world with a price on his head. Making that up to Margot. Learning to live with cooks and cleaners and a butler. Watching Margot smother Morgan and get mad at me if he so much as skins his knee." 

She reaches for her plate, slicing off a sliver of sausage and putting it between her red lips. “Just because we're the poster children for lesbian America in the tabloids doesn't mean that translates into real life."

“I expected you to be much more guarded about your life with me. For three years, when you were my keeper, you never told me your son's name. Even though I had a hand in making him.”

"I've come all this way. If I clam up now, to what end will it be? We exchange pleasantries, you crack a joke about eating me I go home none the wiser as to what game you're playing. Think of it as a gesture of trust." Alana leans back, folding her arms. "Are you ready to tell me?"

“Patience, Alana. You've come all this way; you can't begrudge me a little more of your time. Especially when you kept me captive for three years. And it's a reward in itself, to spend time with an old friend. Besides, now that you mention it, I haven't made a single joke about eating you yet.” 

He lifts his pastry to his mouth and takes a bite.

Alana rolls her eyes at Hannibal. How could she have expected any less of him. At their last meeting she held all the power. Now, Hannibal has lured her into a strange land against her better judgement. 

Perhaps it was nothing more than the thrill of the cat and mouse game they enjoyed. Once strictly intellectual, Alana now imagines it unfolding on a grander scale. Yes, after all these years, knowing Hannibal still gives her a thrill, her fear a keen edge on desire, tinged with inevitable self-loathing. 

Alana breaks the yolks of her eggs, watching the yellow pool on the thick bread before she eats it.

“Also,” Hannibal adds, “I've been flirting with you outrageously. And yet you haven't even mentioned how good it is to see me. Or expressed any surprise that I've apparently returned from the dead.”

"I know as well as you do how capable you are of faking your own death. I chose not to believe it until there was a body in evidence. You've taught me that much. As for the flirting, did you summon me to relive the glory days of our love affair?" 

Her tone is harsh, caustic, but Alana can't help but grow misty-eyed. She really loved him, probably always will.

“Relive our love affair?” Hannibal reflects on the interesting choice of words, and the way that her expression belies her hard tone. 

He had assumed that fear and curiosity would bring Alana to him. And they have. 

But there is still this tug of attraction, the frisson of the intimacy they once shared. Even after all this time, and all that has passed. 

Alone, in this city, both of them having slipped away from unknowing lovers...he wonders if he suggested a hotel, if she, against her better judgement, would accept. 

This is not why he wanted to meet her. But it is unexpected and interesting. It gives him another point of leverage, should he need it. And it is, overwhelmingly, enjoyable to flirt with this beautiful, desirable woman, in a medieval square, under the watchful eye of the clock, and time, and Death. 

“Perhaps not 'relive', no. But to reminisce…” He sips his coffee contemplatively. “You remembered the date.”

Alana the student to Hannibal's mentor would've blushed at his his words. But the cocky confident woman she is now merely levels her gaze at Hannibal, a smirk playing on her lips.

"I had a crush on you since my residency. Can't go past an authority figure. As if I could forget the day you first turned your desire towards me." 

She can feel a wave of heat rise in her chest at the memory. There will exist always between them an attraction, as impractical and downright dangerous it is for both of them.

The smirk, but then the blush. It makes him think of her as he first met her: the student, as she says. 

“Will thought that I initiated an affair with you to threaten him,” he says. “To use you as a hostage in our game of chase, because he cared about you. But I cared about you too, Alana. I always have.”

So it wasn’t all a lie. "Will..." She’s wanted to ask after him, but they've gotten bogged down in their own tangled past and it’s slipped her mind. "How is he?"

At the name, a genuine smile warms Hannibal's features. “He's well.” He touches his overgrown hair, ruefully, and then his scruff of beard. “He's been giving me style tips.”

"You're letting yourself go. You must be really happy together." She toys with her cutlery on the empty plate, looking down. "I'm glad you found someone who could follow you the places I couldn't go." 

Her voice is tinged with something akin to regret; if fate had twisted slightly more conventionally she could've devoted her life to this man. And yet, she realises with a snort, in a way she has. If not romantically, than in a pursuit to contain his darkness from the world.

“But you could go there, Alana, with the proper motivation. Your brother-in-law being a case in point. I doubt that regret over him ever keeps you awake, nights.” He smiles at her. “It's extraordinary what we will do for love, isn't it?”

"I somehow doubt most of your victims are as deserving of death as Mason Verger." 

Alana swallows. The truth is her part in Mason's death did used to keep Alana awake. Not because she felt guilty for killing him, but because she felt guilty for enjoying it. It made her feel powerful like nothing else, though playing Hannibal's keeper was a close second.

Hannibal looks swiftly around the café to see if they have been overheard. “Would you like any more to eat, or shall we walk?”

"Let's walk. It's too nice a day to just sit here." Alana gets to her feet. "Where shall we go?"

Hannibal also stands, leaving money on the table for their meal. “Let's walk along the river. Unless you'd like to drop off your case, at your hotel?”

"It's not heavy, it can wait." In truth Alana is still a little anxious at being alone with Hannibal behind closed doors. She trusts his word when it comes to her safety, but doesn't trust him not to worm his way around it to his own ends, whatever they may be. 

The sunshine feels good on her skin, the ancient buildings adding an atmosphere of grandeur. And despite it all she couldn't imagine a more fitting companion for the day than Hannibal. After all, he always talked to her of Europe.

He takes her case again. A crowd has gathered, and as they walk across the square, the clock strikes eleven a.m. Hannibal stops and points out the clock to her. 

“That skeleton striking the time represents Death. The figures flanking the clock face are Vanity, Avarice and Lust. They're shaking their heads because they haven't yet been banished from the world.” He looks down at her with a smile. “Death, Vanity, Avarice and Lust. You and I could almost write the book.”

"Almost," Alana agrees, once again reflecting on how much she has changed since that first much-longed-for kiss. And yet her fascination with him still taints her thoughts to the detriment of her relationship with her wife. "Is that why you asked to meet here? So we could reflect on our mutual sins together?"

“I know my sins, and I've come to peace with them. Indeed, I enjoy them.” He gives her a wry look. “Vanity has perhaps gone by the wayside recently, while I'm on the run from the law. Have you reconciled yourself to your sins, Alana?”

"When I got pregnant Margot made me promise never to tell our child what happened with Mason, with you, any of it. I've spent seven years trying to protect him without being able to explain why. Shielding him from the truth that he will one day undoubtedly uncover. Trying to live up to the ideal domestic bubble that Margot wants to live in. I think she assumes, even though she knows better, that somehow she has the lion's share of the issues. Perhaps that's why my work is so important to me; it allows me to engage with something...darker." 

Alana sighed. 

"So no, I haven't made my peace with my sins because I'm not even allowed to acknowledge they exist." It is a bitter realisation, and her red lips twist into a pout.

They start walking again, away from the crowds. 

“How is Morgan? Is he more like Margot, or more like you?” He glances at her, his expression carefully wiped blank, but noting hers: the pout, the line between her brows. “Has he shown any resemblance to his father?”

"Not behaviourally." Alana says in relief. "He's got my colouring but he's going to be tall like Margot." She smiles at the thought of her son. "He's smart, loves animals—Margot has been teaching him to ride. He's stubborn as all hell though. I think he gets that from me."

He smiles at her as they walk. “Aristotle said 'Give me a child until he is seven and I will show you the man.' He has the seeds planted in him already that will lead to his future self. Seeds planted from many people. You, Margot, Mason…“

"I suppose you feel like you have a hand in it somehow? And in a way you do." She watches the ripple of the river. "Do you ever regret not having children?"

“To my thinking, I had a direct hand in Morgan's conception. Quite literally. And Will...you know that Margot once chose him to be the father of her child. Mason prevented that, unfortunately. But I planted that seed, as well. I'll admit that there's a large part of me that would very much like to be a father. I would like to help form a person. Pass on what I know. Share that bond with another human being. A love that's unconditional and giving.” 

He takes a deep breath. “I had hoped that Abigail might be that person. But it was not to be. I miss her very much. As does Will. Will's paternal urge is very strong. He longs for family.”

"I suppose one of the disadvantages of being on the run is you can't register for surrogacy or adoption. I'm guessing you already have a pack of dogs." She takes a minute to study Hannibal. She could imagine him as a father.

“Dogs. Yes. We have...several. He finds strays, Will. He has a talent for it. And I can refuse him nothing. My happiness is entirely bound up in his. It's an emotion which I thought I would never feel.”

"And yet you summoned me. I imagine the time for my influence on your happiness has passed."

“It hasn't passed at all. On the contrary, I'm very glad to see you, Alana. This feels like a moment out of time. The two of us, together, both free, neither blind. It means a great deal to me to know that you are happy and well, and that you are glad, on some level at least, to see me too.” 

They are strolling along the broad, brown Vitava, with a view of the statues on the Charles Bridge. It could almost be romantic. 

Alana can't resist Hannibal's warmth. He was one of the constants in her life. Learning to live without him was like being paralysed - and she would know. 

"I am happy to see you, Hannibal, to know that you and Will are safe." She even flashes him a broad smile.

“Of course,” he says, “I haven't forgotten my promise to you.”

"You said I'd be safe, and I know you're a man of your word. Are you going to give me advance notice of when you're going to collect?"

“If it's in my advantage to do so. I may prefer surprise, or I may prefer you to anticipate your fate. But I will collect, Alana. Even if it pains me. Even if it hurts Will.” He tilts his head. “Are you afraid?”

The bright day suddenly seems dark to Alana. 

"Afraid? No. Regretful that it will come to that one day. If you get your way anyway." 

Though Alana knows how capable Hannibal is. As long as he's at large she and her family are at risk.

“One should never have regrets,” he says. “They're a waste of time. You had your choice, and you took it. The rest is fate.” 

For the first time in a very long time, Hannibal touches her. He brushes a dark strand of hair back from her face, carefully, and with tenderness. “I know that you will be delicious.”

Alana shivers at the touch, a knot forming in her stomach at how good yet how strange it felt to be touched by him. She stops short, blood running hot and cold at the same time. 

"What are you playing at?" she whispers.

He feels her shiver, and sees her pupils dilate. Deliberately, he pushes back another strand of her hair. 

“It takes two to play a game, Alana.”

Despite herself she leans into the touch. "Hannibal... " It's a fevered whisper, her hand rising to stroke his stubbled cheek.

“Alana.” Slowly, he inclines his head and kisses her cheek, near the corner of her mouth.

Alana turns into the teasing kiss so their lips connect. It's so wrong and yet she can't resist. 

Damn him. Damn herself.

Alana lets the kiss linger, losing herself to the memory of all they once shared. 

Hannibal enjoys the kiss. This beautiful woman, in this beautiful place; the memory of all the many intimacies they have shared; the tenderness he still feels for her; the fact that this is forbidden to both of them. It's a simple pleasure with a complexity of meaning, and he lets his lips linger on Alana's before he gently pulls away. 

He almost regrets what he has to do next. 

“I want a child,” he says.

She is slightly disoriented as he pulls away, his words taking her mind a moment to process. 

"Hannibal, no." It isn't a judgement of what he asks of her but rather a denial of hearing it. "Please tell me you're not going to ask me what I think you're going to ask me."

Her hair has become dishevelled by their kiss. He strokes it back. “What do you think I'm going to ask you?”

"Well, you want a child. I imagine the list of people you could ask that of is pretty short."

“The list of children whom I have helped to create is even shorter.”

"No. No. Not Morgan." Alana backs away slightly. "He's my son, Hannibal. My son."

“He's your son, yes. But your life belongs to me.” 

He takes a small step forward, closing the distance Alana has made. 

“Will misses Abigail,” he says. “He misses Walter. He has his dogs, yes, but he longs for a family, and a family, to him, means a child. I have told you: I will do anything within my power to make Will happy.”

"And what? You just expect me to give up my child? I couldn't do that to him, to Margot, to myself. Not even for Will." 

She begins to cry, looking for a way out of the isolated stretch of river bank they find themselves on.

“I wouldn't take away a child from his mothers, Alana. Even I would not be that cruel. I'd like you to send him to me for an extended visit. A month, perhaps, to start, during the school holidays. To stay with his uncles Hannibal and Will. He's old enough, as you say, to begin to know about his origins, and his family. We could teach him a great deal. And it would make Will happy.” 

Perhaps. He is still not entirely able to predict Will. But he is confident that, given time, that Will could learn to love another child, after the three he has lost.

Alana releases the breath that she's been holding at the prospect of losing her son completely. Still, she is wary of entrusting Morgan's wellbeing to Hannibal, though deep down her rational mind knows he would not harm the boy. 

She drops onto a nearby bench, her face falling into her hands as her mind ponders the logistics of Hannibal's proposal. 

"What am I supposed to tell Margot? How am I meant to lie about this? How can I tell the truth?" It is one thing for Alana to entrust her own life to Hannibal, quite another to send her son into his lair.

“It's quite simple, and from what you say, it could also be advantageous for you. You've wanted Morgan to know the truth. So this is your opportunity for him to learn it. Tell Margot that if you don't send the boy to me, I will kill you. It's quite true—though of course I intend to kill you anyway, so perhaps you may feel that you have little to lose.” 

He looks at her contemplatively. 

“Although there does appear to be another option,” he continues; “one that I didn't anticipate before seeing you again. Interestingly, it seems to be the first conclusion that you reached when I said I wanted a child.”

"Perhaps it was simply that I assumed you'd want a child with your blood, devoid of the same complex past as Morgan." She sits back against the bench. "What you've proposed sounds reasonable. But when you finally collect on your promise it's going to put my son in a delicate position." 

She shakes her head at the absurdity of the situation "Would you prefer that I gave you and Will a child of your own?" 

She is hardly going to abandon any child she mothers, but she is worried for her son.

“You find it easier to contemplate growing my child in your body, and giving it up, than sending your son to me for a holiday?”

Her head drops back in her hands. 

"I don't know," she sobs, knowing that giving up any child of hers would break her heart and yet... 

"If I gave you your own baby, would you call off your intention to kill my family and me?" 

It is rare for Alana to hold a bargaining chip when it came to Hannibal, and she isn't about to give up the opportunity.

“A life in exchange for a life. It's something to consider.” He tilts his head. “And yet the child would be a part of you out in the world, under my nurturance. It would be loved, very much. But I would teach it all I knew, Alana. This baby would live in a world of exquisite monsters, nourished on human flesh, a beautiful life of love and horror. My child. Would you sell a child to Will and me, in exchange for your own life?”

She feels a monster. She knows it would break her heart to give up any child. Would her life be worth living knowing she has sold this child to Hannibal? 

"I need to see it. Once a year. On your terms." She sniffles, looking out at the water. "And Morgan and Margot will be safe too." 

“Do you really think that Margot will be more understanding of you carrying my baby, than of sending Morgan to me for a time?”

"Of course not. But if I can guarantee our safety, even if she hates me for it, isn't it worth it?" Her eyes peek up at him, bright and clear. "I'm not ready to die."

He sits beside Alana on the bench, watching the broad river go past. 

“You've surprised me, Alana. I didn't expect you to be so desperate, or so generous. I have to think.” He pauses. “Will doesn't know I'm here. As a psychiatrist, what do you make of that fact?”

Alana exhales sharply as she tries to calm herself. 

"I'm trying to make a rational decision about something that is inherently, inextricably emotional,” she says. “I'm trying to do what's best for myself, and for my family." 

She pulls out a business card, scribbling something on the back. 

"That's where I'm staying for the week. Don't think too long, I might change my mind."

“I won't need to think for long.” He stands, tucking the card in his pocket. “There's a decent restaurant down the street from your hotel. I'll make reservations for us for eight o'clock.” 

He looks down at her, with concern. “Get some rest. You must be tired. And these are big decisions.” 

He tells her the name and address of the restaurant, and then stoops and kisses her forehead before walking off briskly, leaving her alone to think.


	2. Chapter 2

Alana sits by the water a while longer, the ripple of the river concealing the anxious churning of her stomach. As the sun begins to decline, she gets up, taking hold of her suitcase and walking back towards the crowds. She takes a taxi to her hotel, checking in without really paying attention to what she’s doing. When the door to her room finally closes behind her, the weight of what she’s contemplating finally hits home. 

She crumples at the foot of the bed, hugging her knees to her chest and sobbing violently. 

She longs to call Margot, to hear Morgan's voice, to remind herself of what she is buying them. A life. A future. 

But it is a purchase, the currency an innocent child, Alana’s child. 

What kind of monster has she become? 

And yet she knows with certainty Hannibal and Will would love and raise that child, whatever that entails. 

After her tears ease she goes into the bathroom, running the shower steaming hot and dropping her clothes where they fall. She cries some more in the shower. Once she feels purged she dries off and crawls between the starched sheets, exhaustion consuming her. 

Alana wakes in darkness, blinking, disoriented for a moment before guilt comes flooding in. She pulls herself to her feet, rifling through her suitcase for the cocktail dress she anticipated needing. It’s strappy black velvet, reaching the floor but with a daring slit up one side that makes Alana look leggier than she was. She dons a pair of black stilettos and a lick of dark red lipstick and makes her way sombrely to the restaurant to meet her fate.

Although Hannibal Lecter is master of the long game, spinning out his plans to cover months or years if necessary, it has never taken him long to make up his mind. He has made his decision before he leaves Alana sitting on the bench. 

The delay until dinner is for Alana's benefit, not his. So she can rest, and think, and understand the implications of what she has offered him, the enormity of her sacrifice, before he accepts or declines. 

Hannibal, himself, doesn't return to the apartment he has anonymously rented. He lingers, watching Alana. Tracing, from a distance, unseen, how the years have changed her from the young doctor he once knew, to this woman, this mother and wife willing to do anything to keep her family together. 

He admires her tremendously. He always has: this strength, in someone who looks so fragile. 

When she gets in the taxi, he leaves too, slipping through the city like a blade. 

He is at the restaurant before her, sitting at a table in the back, away from the windows. The suit he wears is quieter than what he used to wear in Baltimore, or in Florence: plain navy blue, with an open-collar shirt, no tie; less notable, but still a perfect fit. With the hairstyle, the scruff on his chin, it is his concession to being incognito. 

When Alana walks into the restaurant, in her gown, he has to catch his breath. She is stunning. Both aesthetically, and for her bravery. A woman meeting her destiny in style. He rises as she approaches, takes her hand, and kisses it. 

“Alana.”

Alana meets Hannibal's gaze. Her eyes glisten but no tears spill forth. She has cried enough for one day, though she is sure Hannibal will give her cause to cry again soon. Likely it will be as much of her own making as his casual cruelty. 

She allows him to seat her, still not uttering a word, slightly dissociated from her reality. Although she hasn't eaten in hours her rumbling stomach doesn't bother her. She watches Hannibal wordlessly, too tired to engage with his pantomime.

He has ordered her a beer: cold Czech pilsner, the finest in the world. The waiter brings it as soon as she is seated. Ordinarily he would discuss the beer with her, make a comment about her taste for it. Tonight he takes his cue from her and waits quietly until she has taken a sip. He speaks softly.

“You are breathtaking.”

Alana drinks deeply from the glass. The beer is delicious, and the coolness of the glass in her hand draws her focus to the present. As Hannibal's words wash over her, her eyes slip closed, imagining a similar stream of sweet nothings he whispered to her a lifetime ago. 

She draws in a shaky breath, noting as she opens her eyes that Hannibal is decidedly scruffy. Yet still irrepressibly handsome. 

"I have been known to provoke that response in men…” she says. “And in women for that matter."

“And no wonder. You are the ideal companion for someone who wishes to avoid attention. No one in this room, male or female, has eyes for anyone but you.” He sips his beer, smiling at her over the rim. “Including me.”

Alana relaxes into Hannibal's smooth flirtation. Her voice is low and throaty. 

"Well I suppose you're fortunate to have monopolised my attention for the evening." She lets a beat pass. "Are you trying to seduce me, Hannibal?" Her tone is curious.

“I could ask you the same thing, considering you packed that dress for a meeting with me.” He smiles at her, and glances down at the menu. “Would you like me to translate this for you, or shall I order for both of us?”

Alana raises an eyebrow and gives Hannibal a smug smirk. He no doubt knows the effect he has on her, even after all this time, so she thinks making him a little bit crazy is only fair. 

"You can order,” she says, “but I'm not eating anything I can't identify."

“Don't worry, Alana. You're safe. These days, very few restaurants in Prague serve human flesh.” He orders food for both of them, and another beer.

“Do you want to know my decision now?” he asks when the waiter has gone. “Or shall we, for old time's sake, pretend to be for an hour what we in fact truly are: two old friends, who have not seen each other for some time, enjoying a meal together?”

As anxious as she is to know her fate, the beer is cold and the company is warm. 

"I can wait an hour." She relaxes in her seat.

As ever, Hannibal is a charming conversationalist. For an hour, he steers the topics far from their fraught present and complex past: towards recent accomplishments in their field, towards harmless mutual friends from long ago; to current events, arts and music, the odd joke. 

He scrupulously avoids any description of what he and Will have done and where they have been since their disappearance together, though once he mentions, in passing, that Will has taught him to fish, and his eyes grow strangely soft. 

The food, though tasty, is not quite up to Hannibal's standards and he eats sparingly but the beer is truly excellent and they share several more. He watches over the rim of his glass as Alana tilts her head back to laugh at something they have said; observes her delicate, precise hands on the cutlery, her red mouth as she eats. 

For him, it is an hour of almost pure enjoyment, though he has not forgotten the unspoken topic between them and the pain that he knows Alana is feeling despite her smile, despite the way that she responds to his charm, and charms him in return. Her behaviour is sincere, but also a mask, but all the more beautiful for being so.

Alana plays along with the charade, even managing to forget for a moment, when the alcohol makes her tipsy, the darker purpose for their meeting. It is only for a moment though. 

“Would you like dessert?” Hannibal asks eventually.

Her face turns serious. "We can have dessert while you tell me your answer. Goodness knows I'm going to need chocolate while I hear it."

He orders her chocolate mousse cake, and a strong coffee for himself. He waits until the towering pastry has been set in front of her, before he says, quietly. “A life for a life. I think it is a fair exchange.” 

Alana slowly chews her mouthful of cake. The desserts are even better than the mains. She lets out a sigh and some or the tension in her shoulders evaporates in the split second between relief hitting her and the logistics of the situation overwhelming her. 

"My life, and Morgan and Margot's. And I get to know the child. Anything else is for you to decide." She feels as if she's playing God, and her relative calmness at the situation is testament to how much she has changed since that night in Hannibal’s kitchen.

He tilts his head, pleased at how calmly she's taking this. 

“This exchange gives you considerable power over me, Alana. Certainly until the baby is born, and afterwards, too, when you will necessarily know my whereabouts when you see the child. I am willing to trust you. But if you withhold the baby, or if you place me or Will in danger of capture, our agreement is void. I will kill you immediately. And my anger will be so great that I cannot guarantee the safety of the ones you love. Do you understand this, Alana?”

Alana lets the words sink in for a moment before she answers.

"I understand and accept the terms. I promise to keep up my part of the bargain." She’s shaking a little at the enormity of it all. "I assume you'll want me close for the duration of the pregnancy?"

He tilts his head, considering. “I think it will be best for the baby if you are wherever you feel safest and happiest.” 

"I'd like to be at home with Margot and Morgan. Only he's bound to ask questions. He's old enough to understand such things now. And I fear it would tear Margot apart." She wipes away a stray tear.

“Would it?” He leans forward on the table. “It seems to me that Margot tried to use Will the same way that she might accuse me of using you. As the means of having a baby, for her own ends. Except Will never gave his consent.”

“Perhaps she might've understood in the past, maybe even a little bit now,” Alana replies, clearly unconvinced. “She was so overjoyed when I was pregnant with Morgan, so excited by every little detail, even more than I was. Maybe because it's something she will never experience firsthand. She'd throw herself into preparing for a child she'll never get to mother. I'm not sure I could do that to her. I think she would try not to care, but inevitably she would, and then I would be the woman who took her child. Or what she saw as her child." 

Alana shakes her head. "It will be hard to stay away so long, but I think it would be better if I stayed away until the child is born. I can protect her and Morgan more effectively that way. It's not ideal, but I think it's best." 

“Do you think she would do that, even for a child she knew she couldn't keep?” Hannibal asks. “When your life depends on giving up that child? What solution would you propose?”

"I guess I'm just afraid she'll come to resent me. That I won't be able to make her happy." Alana snorts. "Not that I'm doing such a great job now. But I don't want to hurt her, after all she's been through.” 

“As Margot's former therapist, I can assure you that she is more resilient than you think she is. If she could endure what her brother subjected her to, for years, she could adapt to the idea of your being surrogate to someone who has, thus far, only tried to help her. Especially if that surrogacy is what is going to save your life.”

 

He pauses, folding his hands, in the position he would assume for therapy sessions. “But you love her. And love makes it difficult to make rational, reasoned decisions.” He laughs dryly. “One might say it was foolish of me to put myself in prison because of my love for Will.”

There is another reason Hannibal wants her to go home, of course, one he hasn't voiced. If Alana were with them for nine months of pregnancy, she would know too much. Even if they moved afterwards, far away to another continent, she would have seen the way they live, learned the pattern of their life together. She knew enough when he disappeared the first time to show Mason how to find them; after nine months she would know even more. 

He does not underestimate Alana's intelligence. And he dare not underestimate how much she will want to keep this child, for herself and from him. 

With enough knowledge of his life on the run, she may well decide that helping with his capture may be less risky. Given the chance, he will escape any prison. But it may be some time before he has the chance, and Alana may weigh the years with her child as more precious than a guaranteed future. 

Alana pauses, prodding at her cake, suddenly not hungry. “I think you're right. Love makes fools of us all. I can’t be objective when it comes to Margot." She takes a deep breath. "So I go home." 

She is still nervous but she’s beginning to see that Hannibal is right.

He sips his coffee, and nods. ”I think that, despite the emotional complications, you will be happier there. It would be cruel to enforce nearly a year's absence from your family and career.” He tilts his head.

“If you wish, I could be the one to tell her. Margot has never had cause to have such strong emotions about me as you have. In some fashion, she has always trusted me. I have almost always appeared to her nearly as I am. She is a Verger, and at home with killing. And if I tell her, I will be the villain of the piece. I will make very certain that she knows you have no choice. That you are doing this to save your life, and theirs.”

Alana has assumed Hannibal would take some sick pleasure in demonstrating to Margot how much of a hold he still has over Alana. Instead he is giving her an out. 

She has laid the blame at Margot's feet for the awkward situation they are to find themselves in, but perhaps deep down she would feel guilty for bearing the child of a man she's once loved with her wife there to bear witness to the whole thing. 

She certainly wouldn't have the opportunity to weep much over her sacrifice, between reassuring Margot and chasing after their lively son. 

"You would do that for me?" The question is rhetorical. They both know it takes her out of a difficult situation. She reaches across the table, squeezing his hand gently. "Thank you."

He squeezes her hand back. “It will be my pleasure.” 

And it will. He has been curious about the dynamic between Alana and Margot for some time, and has only had a few moments to observe it, in the Verger mansion. It will be interesting to see them in a more natural situation...if it could be called natural, while he is present. “Only two questions remain.”

Alana raised an eyebrow, licking her spoon clean. "Go on." She has some idea of what Hannibal is to ask her, but she's taking a perverse pleasure in making him spell it out.

“They're related questions, I think; the answer to one determines the answer to the other. The first is: how and when shall we tell our respective partners? Before you are pregnant, or after?” He turns over his coffee spoon, contemplatively. 

He adds: “I think it's best to be truthful with you: Will does not know I am here. I did not tell him who I was meeting, or why. He has always reacted better, in my experience, to a fait accompli. He is a man who functions splendidly when he believes he has no choice.” 

His voice softens. “But it is his choice. I have heard him...he weeps, sometimes, at night. In his sleep, and when he's awake and he thinks I can't hear. He has given up so much to be with me, Alana. I want to give him something.” 

He meets her eyes, showing her the genuine longing there. “I came here thinking I would bring him a nephew to visit him. That Morgan would be a child in our life, but only for a limited time. You've proposed something much more permanent. He wants a child very much. But I fear that if he were consulted beforehand, he would feel an inconvenient guilt at allowing you to be coerced into giving us a baby.” He grimaces. “I suspect this isn't the way most people think about relationships.”

"I think you're right,” she says. “No matter how much Will wants a child he could never bring himself to ask any woman to give up their baby, much less me. We have too much history." She meets Hannibal's gaze.

"We need to tell Margot first though,” she says. “If I go behind her back on this it can only be harmful. She and I will tell Morgan together, when I get home. Not the whole of it, but enough that he will understand this baby won't be his sibling." 

Alana's cheeks redden as she raises the elephant in the room. "I'm, uh, assuming you want to go for medical insemination?" 

It seems almost anticlimactic after all they've been through, but Hannibal is with Will now and she with Margot. Even if that old spark is there surely the right thing to do is ignore it.

He smiles at her blush, and her choice of words, and what they betray. “Ironic, isn't it?”

Alana grins, a full blown laugh soon bellowing forth from her lungs. Even with the difficult conversation it feels good to be with Hannibal. Above all else he is one of her oldest friends. And one of the few with the intellectual prowess to match her wit. She doesn't want the night to end, but they should find somewhere quiet where Hannibal can talk to Margot and set in motion this insane scheme.

He laughs as well, and the other diners in the restaurant glance over at them, observing the handsome couple enjoying their dinner and each other. 

Hannibal picks up Alana's hand and leans over the table, kissing the back of it. “Here we are, you and I, having stolen away secretly from our partners to meet in this romantic city, old lovers together, planning by candlelight how I will put my sperm into a syringe.”

"I'm sure you've done stranger things. I know I have." Her grin remains broad, her hand exploring his tenderly. "That was a lifetime ago. I couldn't ask you to set aside your love for Will, even for one night." 

The words pain her, because she will never stop loving him. But as his friend, and Will's, she wants the best for them. And she hasn't seen Hannibal this happy in years. It is clear the empath gives the cannibal something she never could. And shouldn't try to, either.

“Thank you,” he says. And he means it. He presses her hand to his cheek for a moment.   
Though he will not tell her, he has been considering the possibility of their making love to conceive this baby, as a logical option. Calculating the power it would give him over her, emotionally and as leverage with Margot; and the corresponding power it would give Alana over him and his feelings for Will. 

They would both be equally compromised...but possibly he would be more so. His love for Will and his reluctance to unnecessarily hurt him makes Hannibal more instinctively faithful than he has ever been to anyone or anything for a very, very long time. If Alana had insisted upon intimacy, as a condition of having this baby, it would have been difficult for him, emotionally, even though he is still attracted to her physically and mentally. 

He kisses her hand again, and again says to her, sincerely, “Thank you. You may not believe it, but it means a great deal to me to know that you respect my love for Will, and his for me, despite all that we have done.”

She withdraws her hand, feeling the inevitable smart that is a result of her words. It hurts her to push him away, because she'd have him in a heartbeat. Not for anything lasting, but just that old familiar touch. 

Her smile fades and she sits up straight in her chair, attempting to withdraw from the intimacy and yet grasping for every last drop of it. "It's getting late. Will you walk me back to my hotel? We can call Margot in the morning.”

“Of course.” He signals for the bill. “It’s only late afternoon in the U.S. We could call her tonight, if you are ready.”

Alana nods. "Yes. I need to talk to her. After you have done so, of course. Morgan goes to bed at 7:30. Maybe after that?"

He checks his watch. “That gives us two hours. Shall we walk back to your hotel? Have another drink? Or would you prefer to be alone?” He pays for the bill with cash, adding a generous tip. 

"Another drink sounds grand. Is all the beer in Prague this good? Maybe we can find somewhere with a view. We might as well play pretend for a few more hours." 

She offers a warm smile to show she is only half serious, as if they could ever truly conceal their true natures from one another after all they've been through.

“I know just the place, perfect for pretending.” He offers her his arm. 

Alana takes it with a smile, huddling close to him in the cool air and following where he goes.

He removes his jacket and drapes it over her shoulders as they walk together to a terrace bar with a view over the river and the old town. He orders them each a beer, a dark one this time, and when they arrive, holds his up. “What would you like to drink to, Alana?”

Alana raises her glass. "To our child, and to Margot and Will appreciating the lengths we'll go to to make them happy." 

“To our child. And I hope that they will.” He drinks deeply. “There is a tiny bit of happiness left for you and me, I hope.”

"God knows we've earned it. We could do this amicably enough. It's not going to be easy, but I'd rather not spend nine months being sullen." Alana savours the full-flavoured beer. She shivers at the other possible meaning of his words. "Unless you mean us us." 

“I mean that we will be parents together. I hope you are not doing this only to preserve your life. Purely a physical transaction, like a necessary medical procedure. We are already bound together. Creating life may bind us closer together than contemplating death.” 

"Oh." Alana nods. "Yes I see your point. You know this wouldn't have been such an agonising decision for me if I didn't want to play a role in this child's life." She takes a long sip of beer. "I guess I just never dared hope that you would allow me that. I don't want to step on Will's toes but this child will always be tied to me, no matter how far away I am."

“On my terms, Alana. My life with Will, is...irregular. There are certain necessary precautions. I wondered…” 

He hesitates. This day and night has contained more honesty than he is used to sharing with anyone but Will. 

“It's quite impossible, for reasons we've already discussed, but I wondered—if Will and I had come to you together, if you would have preferred the child to be Will's. If for no other reason than because he is the lesser evil.” He lowers his voice. “I wonder if I would prefer it to be his.”

This all getting very confessional on both their parts, Alana muses. Maybe it's all the beer. She hesitates a moment before shaking her head. 

"Maybe it's because I've always been inclined to see the best in you, but whatever your sins, I don't believe they'd be inherent in any child of yours. Yes, if you wanted me to, I could mother Will's child, but..." She cocks her jaw in an embarrassed grimace, voice low, "I never fantasised about having Will's baby." 

Not that she has had the thought since that night in Hannibal's kitchen, but nonetheless she is guilty of it.

“I never thought of having a child until Abigail. She reminded me of—”

But that is a truth too far for Hannibal. Even in years of enduring the clumsy prodding of BSCHI psychiatrists, and the more delicate, sharper probes of Dr Bloom herself—even under the cutting and intimate examination of Bedelia DuMaurier—he has never spoken of his sister. He has spoken of her to no one but Will Graham. 

And yet the sudden thought that a baby, his baby with Alana, might have blonde hair, a lisp, a face to match the cherubs painted on the ceiling of his mother's boudoir in Lecter Castle… 

Hannibal swallows hard. Morgan would have been safer in all ways. But they have chosen this path now, and he wants it, even though he fears it. 

He takes a long drink of his beer, nearly draining the glass, and puts on a smile that would fool most people. “I hope very much that it has your eyes.”

Alana notes Hannibal's abrupt stop, like a door slamming shut in her face. The man has secrets, that she deduced many moons ago. He has been honest with her today, she can respect his privacy, as she has always done, having quickly learned that his past was not up for discussion. Most people would be fooled by the charming smile he casts at her, but Alana is not most people when it comes to Hannibal. Yet she plays along, to spare him the pain of explaining himself. 

"I don't know, I've always found your particular shade of maroon quite fetching." Her lips twitch into a flirtatious smirk.

He casts his gaze quickly over her face. She has detected his unease, and glossed over it, against all her therapeutic training, against all the presumed rules of their basically antagonistic relationship. 

Hannibal has been weighing every small interaction for power leverage, for strategic advantage and potential for manipulation. He assumes Alana has been doing the same. And yet, for a moment, he was weak, and she chose to let it slide. His smile, this time, is genuine. 

“Any child of ours would be fortunate to take after you in any respect, Alana.” He pauses. “It is, perhaps, precipitous to ask, but...do you happen to be at the correct part of your cycle? Could we try tonight?” He adds, almost apologetically: “As you know, I'm a patient man...but once Margot knows, there seems little cause to delay.”

Alana flushes again. "I-I checked earlier and yes, we could try." She dares a glace into Hannibal's eyes. Her full lips form throaty words. "Unless you plan on hitting up a hospital late at night, we might have to do it the old fashioned way.” 

She takes his hand across the table, the lights gleaming along the river blurring a little in her vision. 

He runs his thumb over the back of her hand. He could play this moment to advantage, or to cruelty, but because she has been fair to him, he merely says: “We must think of others.” But then he smiles, relaxing into flirtation. “But I am very gratified that your memories are so fond.”

"Yes." She swallows, her mouth suddenly dry, the alcohol and balmy evening getting to her. Gently she withdraws her hand, if only because Hannibal's measured touch is curling like a tendril of smoke around the knot of desire in her stomach. 

"I want to speak to Margot," she says more assuredly, inhaling Hannibal's scent from the jacket still draped over her shoulders.

“Yes.” Hannibal stands, extending his hand for her in invitation. “We will go to your room. We will call Margot. And then, we will try to make a baby.”

Alana is a little shaky on her feet as she takes Hannibal's hand for stability. She knows after Hannibal's rather harsher words there will be reassuring to do, and she needs to know she can rely on Margot's stability. Their future is almost her whole reason for doing this after all. 

As they leave the bar Alana hails a cab, leaving Hannibal to direct the driver back to her hotel. She is a little embarrassed by the state of the room as they enter - bed unmade, sheets littered with clothes and cosmetics. It's anything but romantic. Alana clears off the bed and sits down, passing her phone to Hannibal.

Alana has always been rather untidy in everything but personal appearance. Hannibal smiles to himself, remembering her desk piled high with papers, her long dark hair left in his hairbrush, a silk stocking curled beside his bed. He perceives her embarrassment, but Hannibal, punctiliously neat himself, rather likes the fact that she has not changed. 

He takes her phone and dials Margot. He thinks he will enjoy this: playing the big bad wolf.

“Alana?” Margot’s voice on the other end is breathy, familiar. “Why haven’t you called earlier?”

“Hello, Margot,” says Hannibal. 

On the other end of the line, Margot recognizes the murderer's voice, calling from her wife's phone, and screams. 

Alana can hear it from across the room. Hannibal speaks through the scream, in calming, measured tones.

“Alana is safe. She is alive and unhurt. I have found her, but I have not killed her.”

He listens, then takes the phone from his ear and covers it with his hand so Margot will not hear what he says to Alana. “She wants to speak to you. Tell her nothing but that you are safe. I will handle the rest.” He passes the phone to her.

At the sound of Margot's scream the bile rises in Alana’s throat. She wants to wrest the phone from Hannibal and reassure her long-suffering wife. Instead she wrings her hands together until Hannibal passes over the handset. Her features knit as she tries to reassure her wife without giving up the game. 

"Margot baby? It's okay. I'm okay. You don't need to worry. Shhh." 

Her eyes glisten at Margot's obvious distress, aching to hold her, instead coaching her to calm before she passes the phone back to Hannibal.

Oh, he does enjoy this little drama, as he has most of what has occurred today. But he also likes observing Alana and Margot's relationship, even through this distance. Partly out of curiosity; partly because since he and Will acknowledged their feelings for each other he has been learning about the fine, delicate mechanisms of love, and this is another lesson. 

He takes the phone back, ready to tell a version of the truth that will be reassuring for Margot and convenient for Alana and himself.

“Are you calm now, Margot? Good. Here is what has happened, and what is going to happen: I tracked Alana down, and found her. Justice would demand that I kill her, as I have promised, but instead I have offered her a bargain. A life for a life. Will and I want a child, and I want Alana to conceive it, carry it, and give it to me.” Dryly, he adds, “It is not unlike the bargain which you offered once to Will, except that Alana is aware. In exchange, I will spare Alana's life. And your own, and your son's. If she does not live up to her end of the bargain, she will die. You all will.” 

Alana forces herself to listen to the conversation, head buried in her hands at the level of subterfuge and deceit in the web Hannibal is spinning. As she hears Margot's sharp tones across the transatlantic line, Alana finds herself poised over the toilet, retching up the evening's meal. 

Hannibal watches her leave the room and continues speaking pleasantly to Margot. “I think it is fair. After all, your son wouldn't exist without me. You owe me a child. Alana has chosen to accept.”

He pauses, listening to Margot's outpouring of anger on the other side. He says, in the voice of her therapist: “You have got better at expressing your emotions now that your brother is dead. Well done, Margot. I told you that killing him would be therapeutic. Give my love to Morgan, will you?”

Alana sobs, clutching the bowl for stability before she gets up, rinses her mouth and washes her face, returning to the room as Hannibal finishes his last twist of the knife down the line. 

With a smile, he passes the phone back to Alana, and goes out onto the balcony of her room, with a view of the city, to allow her some privacy while she talks to her wife.

She spends more minutes reassuring Margot that she'll be home as soon as possible. That Margot can decide what she wants to tell Morgan. And then some time whispering sweet nothings, promising that Hannibal's child is not a love child by any conventional sense. 

Finally, with tears of relief on her cheeks she ends the call and joins Hannibal on the balcony. 

He holds out arms to her, knowing she needs comfort, aware that accepting it from him at this moment will cement their bargain and their bond, but unsure whether she will walk into his arms, or turn away.

There is no hesitation on Alana's part. Only the two of them know the full of what they're doing, and as such are uniquely placed to guide each other through it. Alana allows herself a mere moment to dry her tears in Hannibal's shirt before she looks up at him with a resolve that belies her emotional state. 

"Let's do this,” she says.

He gazes down at her for a moment. “You are brilliant, beautiful, and you have no compunction about deceiving those whom you care for the most, when you believe it is necessary. I can think of no better woman to carry my child.”

She still wears his jacket around her shoulders; Hannibal parts it. His fingers brush against her dress as he reaches into the breast pocket and removes something. 

He shows her two syringes, minus needles. “Good thing I am always prepared.”

"Okay," Alana breathes, calm now she has smoothed things over with Margot. "How do you want to do this? I could wait out here? Or you could use the bathroom?" 

She finds the conversation they're having more than a little surreal. Her having Hannibal's baby, it's ludicrous. But somehow it makes sense.

“The bathroom, please. I would like a little privacy. It's a delicate procedure.”

Alana nods, ushering Hannibal off the balcony and collecting her clothes from the bathroom floor. She also clears an expensive bottle of perfume from the counter. She doesn't want the traces of her presence to inhibit whatever fantasy Hannibal needs to spin for himself to produce the desired result.

He closes the door behind him and realizes his mistake. 

The bathroom is large and tastefully opulent, like the rest of this hotel, and it is utterly permeated by Alana's scent. She has had a shower here, sprayed perfume, used these towels, brushed her hair with this brush, used this floral shampoo, removed her makeup with these cotton pads crumpled into the bin. Alana is as present to him in this room as she would be if she were standing next to him. 

If he were wise, he should have gone back to his own hotel, or procured a room in this one. But he is aware that his proximity to Alana gives him more influence over her, and he does not want to allow her time to change her mind. Words are one kind of commitment; actions another. 

So he locks the door, removes his trousers, carefully folds them over the towel rail to preserve the crease, then stands in front of the wide mirror and frees himself from his boxer shorts. and then, with the air of his surgeon self, lines up the necessary equipment on the marble counter: syringes, tissues, a clean hotel glass, paper wrapping removed. 

Preparations complete, he stands in front of the wide mirror, opens the flies of his paisley boxer shorts, and takes himself in hand. 

He closes his eyes, the better to pull the necessary images from his mind palace, and makes his second mistake: he takes a deep breath. 

Alana Bloom fills his senses. 

Red mouth, white skin, dark curtain of hair. Small hands, curve of waist, quirk of teasing lips, throaty gasp of pleasure. 

He opens his eyes again. His thoughts are having the desired effect. But this child will be his and Will's. Will should be present at the act of conception, even if only in Hannibal's thoughts. 

Looking steadily into his own eyes in the mirror, he remembers again. 

Will's hands that first time, uncertain but desperate. Soft lips and the rasp of beard stubble. Silver scar, trail of dark hair. The musky scent at the base of his spine. Will whispering his name, at first tentative and then urgent. Head thrown back, ridge of Adam's apple, pounding pulse. 

Hannibal licks his lips and imagines Will, his own movements quickening. Blood-soaked hands. The taste of his sweat. 

His eyes slide away from his reflection in the mirror, and alight on a sliver of red on the floor. Lace and silk: a pair of Alana's panties, which she failed to notice when she scooped up her clothes. 

Hannibal's breath hitches. His thoughts shift and meld. Himself and Will, sliding this wisp of red down Alana's pale legs. Alana's face buried in his neck, biting, gasping as Will reaches round her to kiss Hannibal's lips. Softness and hardness, three shades of flesh together, the three of them conceiving this child at once. 

Hannibal gasps and is only just able to position the glass correctly in time. His hands are not quite steady as he fills a syringe. 

He washes his face and hands, dresses quickly, cleans the glass. In the mirror, he is flushed. He emerges from the bathroom to rejoin Alana.

As soon as Hannibal turns the lock on the bathroom door, Alana begins nervously nesting in the hotel room. First, she turns on the radio, putting on a channel playing lilting jazz. Then she begins to undress, draping her gown over the back of a chair and carefully removing her black lace underwear. She pulls a pure silk chemise and kimono from her case, the dusky rose fabric accentuating the slight blush in her cheeks. She begins to tidy the room, straightening the sheets on the bed and hanging her clothes. 

She is confident of Hannibal's virility, even despite the unusual situation, and once the room is in order, lies down on the bed, her knees raised, to await him. It is a vulnerable position, and even having been through similar in Morgan's conception, she feels akin to a bride on her wedding night, not least because her casual flirtation with Hannibal has had a physical effect. 

Yet she doesn't chance to touch herself; it wouldn't do to have him walk in on her even though, or perhaps /because/ she'd know he was doing the same on the other side of the thin bathroom wall. 

He's taking longer than she expected, though, and she begins to feel somewhat silly lying there with her legs up. She has begun to weigh up her her chances of finding an English TV channel and a carton of mint chip in the mini bar when Hannibal finally emerges. 

She waits for an awkward moment before she speaks. "Do you have it?"

His thoughts are too fresh in his mind for him to be able to observe her in her slinky silk negligée with any equanimity. He focuses his gaze on her forehead and hands her the syringe, which is warm from the fluid within. 

"Here it is. And you also left these behind." With his other hand, he gives Alana her underwear.

"Sorry about that,” she mumbles, taking the underwear and setting them aside. Her fingers close more reverently around the syringe. 

She is almost surprised that Hannibal doesn't want to perform the insemination himself; but perhaps it would be too intimate after everything they've shared. 

She takes the plastic tube, pressing it smoothly inside herself until it bumps up against her cervix. She closes her eyes then, drawing courage from the thought of her wife and child, and pushes the end of the syringe, distributing Hannibal's still-warm semen into her vagina. 

The tube is sticky as she withdraws it and places it on the bed beside her. She lowers her legs, tugging the hem of her chemise down to cover herself. "Now what?"

"Now, it is done." 

He has averted his eyes in the minute or two it has taken to inseminate herself, but now he sits next to her on the bed. He draws her silk robe closed, with scrupulous tenderness. "Do you want to be alone?"

"Alone? No." She shakes her head, grateful for Hannibal's tenderness but also needing something she fears he cannot give her. "I need Margot. I need her to hold me,” she confesses, the strain of the day finally catching up with her bravado. "And I need to sleep." 

Her face cracks, overwhelmed with emotion and she turns away, burying her face in a pillow.

"I'm not Margot. But if you wish, I will hold you."

Her sobs only intensify at his words, if only because part of what she's craving is normality, and that is a state so very far from everything that has happened today. She forces herself to breathe, to be rational. So far from home Hannibal is the only person she has. 

"Just until I get to sleep," she sniffles finally. It wouldn't do to wake in his arms. It'd be too much like old times.

He nods, and wordlessly, he turns out the lights in the room except for a small lamp. Then he comes to the bed and lies beside her, dressed in shirt and suit trousers, and pulls the coverlet over them both before he puts his arms around her and draws her close, her head tucked into his neck, his face in her hair. 

"Sleep well, Alana."

His touch feels strange at first, strong and masculine in contrast to Margot's delicate but devoted embrace. She is too tired to muse long on it; just having arms around her is a comfort, and she slips easily into a deep sleep. She can worry about the future tomorrow.

 

He feels her relax into his embrace, and knows the exact moment when she falls asleep. Extraordinary, when such momentous changes may be taking place within her body. 

She wanted him to leave when she slept, but Hannibal knows that thoughts and dreams have weight and reality, and he is still in the grip of the image that rose in his mind when he came into that cup: Will inside him, and him inside Alana, the three of them together, creating life. 

He kisses her hair, and whispers into her sleeping ear: "If there is a child, it has been conceived in love." 

He will stay just a moment more, listening to her breathing, thinking about what could be happening right now inside her. Cells meeting, merging, dividing. The whole pattern of the future being made. 

He thinks of Will, cradling a child in his arms, the infinite softness in his eyes, and with a sigh, Hannibal falls asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A morning in a hotel room in Prague

The sun is well up in the sky by the time Alana wakes. As she goes to stretch, stifling a yawn, she finds herself still cradled by Hannibal's firm embrace.

It is nice that he stayed, but Alana finds herself wondering what Margot would think, especially given that a certain part of Hannibal's anatomy she was once intimately familiar with is presently digging into the flesh of her bottom.

_Should I wake him? Shit._

And soon his closeness, his breath in her hair begins to provoke a like response in her own hormone-crazed body.

 

***

 

Hannibal is dreaming. In his dream, he lies with Alana in his bed in Baltimore. Her hair is spread out on his pillow and she is naked against him, fast asleep.

He rises and pulls on pyjama bottoms, his red sweater, and leaves her sleeping and innocent as he walks barefoot downstairs. His kitchen has been laid to waste. Glass lies shattered on a floor pooled with blood; a head-shaped dent in his refrigerator door.

Abigail lies there, her throat slashed, her hair spread out on the bloody floor, her pose an echo of Alana's upstairs.

Her dead lips whisper to him: "Hello, Dad."

"Hello, Abigail.”

"You need to go back to him," she says.

"I know. Sleep well." She closes pale blue eyes and he walks across glass to the pantry.

The door is ajar and Jack Crawford crouches, clutching his neck, fighting for breath.

"A life for a life," he says, his voice deep and beautiful and clotted with blood.

Hannibal doesn't answer. Instead he opens his pantry refrigerator and takes out Beverly Katz's kidney on a white porcelain plate.

He steps out of the pantry and into the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, into his own white-walled, glassed-in cell.

Will Graham stands in it, wearing a green prison overall. His face bleeds from the stab wound Francis Dolarhyde made in his cheek. Drops patter slowly on the floor. The bright red blood only makes his eyes more violently blue.

"I have a gift for you, my love," Hannibal says to him.

When he holds out the plate, it has transformed. No longer white porcelain, it is a gold sacrificial plate, a communion plate from the Norman Chapel in Palermo. Upon it lies a perfect newborn baby.

"This is for you," Hannibal tells him.

Will nods. Tenderly, with reverence, he picks up the squirming infant from the plate. He kisses its downy head. Then he meets Hannibal's gaze. Hannibal nods, once.

"This is my body," he says.

And lovingly, gently, Will Graham begins to eat the child.

 

***

 

Hannibal awakes, smoothly and without a start or a gasp of breath. He is lying in Alana's bed in her hotel room in Prague. He holds Alana close. They are both fully clothed. He is aroused, and his erection is pressed firmly against her buttocks. From her breathing, he knows that she is awake.

He draws back from her. "I'm sorry. It's an involuntary response."

Alana exhales heavily, suppressing the tickle of lust that had threatened to rise. She rolls over to face Hannibal.

"I know, it just isn't helpful when my hormones are screaming at me to reproduce and the only action I'm likely to see is from my vibrator." She pouts playfully for a second. "Do you want me to order some breakfast?" She tilts her head thoughtfully. "Or we could try again?"

"I think we should try again. Repetition is more likely to be successful." He gets up, his arousal very evident. "Excuse me." He retreats into the bathroom.

Alana nods, feeling more relaxed this time around. She goes out onto the balcony, basking in the morning sun while she waits for Hannibal.

She hopes it won't take her long to fall pregnant; as much as she enjoys Hannibal's company she's eager to get home. Maybe she and Margot can have another child of their own after this one. If Alana isn't totally over being pregnant by then, of course.

Hannibal is much quicker this time, and he does not need to think at all. But as he washes afterwards, he feels the vestiges of his dream clinging to him, like a faint trace of scent.

He rarely dreams, and he understands the meaning of this one: guilt, sacrifice, redemption.

It was nice to see Abigail. Will still sees her in such a way, he knows.

Syringe warm in his hand, he joins Alana on the balcony. "It's a beautiful day for new beginnings."

"And I'm probably going to spend it sponging around a hotel suite hoping this crazy scheme works," she moans, wrapping her arms warmly around Hannibal. "I'm going to go inside and do this, and then you're going to shower me in coffee and pastry."

"Agreed." He hugs her warmly. "But you don't have to stay inside. We can do some sightseeing this afternoon, if you like."

"That sounds fun. I need to buy some more clothes too, and a bigger suitcase, I mean it'll be a few more weeks until we know whether this has taken, and I'd rather not spend all my time flying back and forward. I can work remotely for the most part anyway."

"I am very happy to help you spend the Verger fortune on new clothes." He smiles down at her. "But I don't think that I can stay for a long Czech honeymoon, Alana. There are certain considerations, when one is presumed dead." He pauses, and his voice grows serious. "And I don't want to leave Will alone."

"Not do I expect you to," Alana replies smoothly. "I'll be out of your hair just as soon as I'm pregnant." She grins. “Besides, I am a grown woman, I can look after myself. At least one of us should be with the one they love sometime soon."

"I know you're a grown woman. But I feel a certain responsibility for the welfare of the woman who may be the mother of my child. Especially as I currently have no plans to kill you myself."

He nods at the syringe in her hand. "You should use that before it gets cold."

"Just don't go hiring a bodyguard or something." Alana rolls her eyes as she heads inside.

She lays down on the bed, emptying the syringe in a similar fashion to the night before. It lacks the ceremony and heightened emotion that the first time did, and she is glad. The less sentimental she is about this baby, the better.

Though her hand lingers in her flat stomach, wondering what, if anything, was making the very first steps towards life inside of her. Alana smiles in spite of herself.

Hannibal waits outside, standing at the railing and looking out over Prague. He adds folic acid to his mental shopping list for Alana, and then his thoughts turn to Will.

Necessity and discretion mean that he cannot contact his lover, and the circuituous route he had to take to get here means that he hasn't seen Will for several days already. He almost envies Alana's telephone call with Margot last night, as emotionally fraught as it was.

Today and tomorrow, he promises himself. The most fertile days of Alana's cycle. And then he will go back to Will, to that cottage they are already, unwisely perhaps calling "home".

"Penny for your thoughts?" Alana asks lightly, surprised she managed to sneak up on Hannibal so effectively. She's dressed herself now: skinny blue denim designer jeans, a striped top and a navy blazer. Even her shoes are casual canvas sneakers. "I can wait, if you want to take a shower?"

"I have been thinking about what makes a place a home." 

"Home is where the heart is, or so they say. I'd say that's true, as a mother. But a little piece of my heart will always remain with you," she adds wistfully.

He casts his eyes over her casual but neat appearance, and then at his own unusual déshabille. "I look and smell like someone who has slept in his clothes and produced two sperm samples. I think a shower may be necessary. And perhaps you will help me choose an outfit, as well."

The thought of dressing Hannibal makes her smile. "I do know a thing or two about a well-cut suit. I'll have them bring up some food in the meantime." She steps inside leaving Hannibal to his thoughts.

He gazes for another moment at the city. Alana is all brisk businesslike cheer, seemingly over her upset of last night, at least for the moment. But he is melancholy. His dream, missing Will, even the dull functionality of pleasuring himself into a cup.

A shower and new clothes will help, he decides. Perhaps a nice glass of wine at lunch. Finding a gift for Will. Some simple pleasures to counteract complex emotions.

He sighs, and goes into the room to shower.

While Hannibal is in the shower, Alana has coffee and a light breakfast brought up to the room. She's worried by his distance. Surely he hasn't changed his mind?

She sits and stews as she nibbles on a delicate pastry. If he has, there's a good chance she's already pregnant, and she knows she could never abort his baby. The sombre thoughts have taken the edge off her breezy calm by the time Hannibal emerges from the bathroom.

A shower helps, enough at least so that Hannibal can affect the necessary good cheer. He puts on his well-worn clothes, finger-combs his hair (using Alana's brush feels, for some reason, presumptuous) and scratches ruefully at the ever increasing scruff on his chin. One could almost call it a beard, now. Then he rejoins Alana, pouring himself a cup of coffee from the room service tray.

"One would think that months on the run from the authorities would have cured me of vanity. But I'd kill for a close shave and a good haircut."

Alana chuckles at his discontent. "Maybe you should be thankful that's all you have to worry about for now. Though if you keep growing that this baby is going to have trouble telling his or her fathers apart." She continues to tease him gently, "Or are you worried you're no longer the man Will fell in love with?"

"Nearly constantly."

The answer comes out on its own, and it surprises him. But although Alana's comment was a tease, his answer is truthful, and more revealing than he would wish.

Alana's smile fades from manic to something resembling tenderness. She reaches over, pinching Hannibal firmly on the cheek. "You and I have known each other, what, fifteen years? If we can still have the same connection I have no doubt Will can see the real you under all that scruff."

"He doesn't care about the scruff. I doubt he even notices it particularly." He pauses, and decides to be honest. There's a reason why Alana is a good therapist—a much better therapist, in fact, than a hospital administrator.

"He fell in love with the real me, after much and varied persuasion. But he fought against it for a very long time. And he gave up a great deal for it. He says he has no regrets, and I believe him. But in time...he may."

Alana looks deep into Hannibal's eyes, reaching over to take his hand. There is no spark of chemistry at her touch, only comfort and a heartfelt desire to see her friend happy.

"Will didn't make his decision lightly, I'm sure. I don't think he'd make any decision to leave lightly either." She squeezes his fingers. "In any case, you can't control Will's feelings, you can only do your best to make him happy. And as near as I can tell you're going above and beyond to do that."

"I hope so." He twines his fingers with hers. "You are speaking to me as a friend, not a psychiatrist. A psychiatrist would ask me why I am afraid that he will change his mind. Why I feel that I need him, and why I am ill at ease with the idea of needing anybody."

"Are you looking for a friend or a shrink?" she asks with a soft smile. "I can do both. Let's start with why you're afraid Will will leave you. What do you fear?"

"Fear...is a snake, constricting the heart. Before recently, I had not felt it for a very long time."

His gaze abstracts as he thinks.

"I have no fear of death; it's merely a part of life, and has its own siren call. While I wish to avoid capture, I don't fear being caught. I survived it once, and I could survive it again. It's a rational wish rather than a fear. Most people fear pain, but I have learned to distance myself from it, as I distanced myself from my cell in the BSHCI. What I fear is loneliness. Not being alone; I have been alone, for all practical purposes, for most of my life. Hiding from being truly seen, playing an elaborate game with the people I called colleagues, friends and lovers."

He glances at her.

"Such as the game I played with you, Alana. It was a very enjoyable game. But Will..."

He disengages his hand and stands, walking to the window and speaking to the view rather than to the woman who is listening. "Will and I are the same. We are one. We share the same peculiar genius, and if he left me—or if I destroyed him, which I have tried to do before—I would be diminished. Torn apart. Vivisected and splayed open, a pain I could never transcend." He breathes in deeply. "I would survive, but I would not be as you see me now. I would be...much less human."

He closes his eyes. "This is perhaps not what you wish to hear from the man whose child you may well be carrying."

Alana had long ago become aware that her affection for Hannibal was somewhat one-sided. Indeed the game that was - and is their relationship was never more apparent than in the witty repartee that passed for therapy sessions when Alana was his keeper.

Still, it smarts a bit to have it put so bluntly, but Alana has come to appreciate Hannibal's honesty. She swallows hard before speaking.

"Would you try and destroy him though, after all you've done to win him over? It seems counter to both your interests."

He doesn't answer this question. Instead, in an act of deliberate avoidance, he turns to her and answers the question she did not ask, and one that is more important to her:

"I will not destroy this child that you and I are making. I promise that to you. If he or she is in danger from me, and Will cannot help, I will immediately return the child to you for safekeeping. Let that be part of our bargain, our pledge." He adds very quietly, "I will not do again what I did to Abigail." 

In all the madness of the last 24 hours, Alana had failed to consider the possibility that Hannibal might deliberately harm their offspring. She knew he was dangerous, but he seemed to prize what she could give him above all else, a magical cure-all for Will's happiness.

"How do you know you'll be able to stop yourself in time?" she asks in an equally hushed tone.

"I have made you a promise now. I do not make them lightly—nor rescind them without reason. As you know, Alana." He is stern now, on the verge of being angry—if only for the purpose of deflecting further questions about his feelings. "I've told you I want no repetition of what happened with Abigail. I am capable of learning from mistakes."

His voice is cold and more overtly dangerous than it has been since they met under the clock.

"And I do not harm children."

The threatening tone in Hannibal's voice is unmistakable. Alana rises swiftly from the bed, clutching her purse and backing against the firm wood of the door, ready for flight at a moment's notice. She is tempted to push him further, but fears his rage.

"Okay," she agrees, hoping it will placate and calm him.

Her agreement doesn't placate him, and while once he might have enjoyed her evident fear, now it only tips him over from feigned anger to actual anger.

"I thought you were a better psychiatrist than that, Alana. You wouldn't let your patients divert your attention from the issues they don't want to face, so why are you allowing me to do so? Bedelia would have challenged me the moment I snapped at her. As would Will."

He takes a step towards her, which is not unthreatening. How quickly his charming human mask drops, when he allows it to.

Her knuckles are white as she grips the doorknob. "I didn't realise you needed me to be your psychiatrist. Certainly I can't do that, and be your friend, and be the mother of your child."

She could, but without Hannibal safely contained by the walls of the hospital she doesn't feel safe to do so.

"Would you really hurt me?" she questions Hannibal as he steps towards her. "What if I'm carrying your child?"

Before she has time to react, to open the door and to flee, Hannibal closes the space between them with rapid strides. He takes her head in his hands and holds her, gently but with an implacable strength, inclining his head and speaking intimately to her, like a lover, his words touching her lips with short puffs of air.

"You are still a little in love with me, Alana. You see me as the man you knew, your mentor, friend and lover. And yet what a short step it is to see me as the man who stood covered in Jack Crawford's blood in my kitchen and swore to kill you. The monster whom you kept. You love me and you fear me, Alana. I have sworn I will not harm you or this child, and yet your instinctive reaction is a chill in your viscera, the primitive response to the sight of a poisonous snake."

He bends his head still closer to hers, close enough so that an observer would think they were kissing. She can feel the rumble of his voice as well as hear it.

"With this fear, can you still give me your baby?"

Alana inhales sharply as Hannibal takes hold of her, writhing a little before his firm but gentle touch commands a modicum of calm from her.

Still, his closeness triggers a heady brew of emotion from Alana, that old, ever present double edged blade of fear and desire. She longs to take advantage of his closeness, but fear wins out on that score, he is already agitated; best not provoke him.

His words are like ice to her, and she finds herself wishing he couldn't read her like a book. Not that it was much of a leap to see her feelings for him, but it was not ideal for him to have such an easy way to manipulate her.

By the time Hannibal asks his final question Alana is overcome with sensation and emotion. She bites down hard on her lip to prevent herself doing something truly stupid, the coppery taste of blood against her tongue.

"I-I don't see what choice I have," she offers weakly. "After all, I could be pregnant already."

Hannibal stills, his eyes fixed on the bead of blood on Alana's lip. He inhales deeply through his nose, as if to calm himself, and releases his hold on her.

Very gently, taking care not to hurt the small cut she has made, he wipes the blood from her mouth with his thumb, and raises it to his own lips, licking it off. His eyes soften, his face thoughtful rather than almost inhuman.

"That was ungentlemanly of me, Alana. And rude, to frighten you and press my advantage. I apologise."

He steps back, allowing her space.

"This is an emotional situation," he says. "I have taken life, but never created it. It touches on feelings that I have long preferred to leave unexamined." He doesn't touch her again, but he inclines his body slightly towards hers, his face as full of concern as it was recently full of anger. "Are you all right?"

Alana stays deathly still as Hannibal ingests her blood. It is only once he steps back that she allows herself to move, a shudder rippling involuntarily through her body. She grips the wall for purchase, finding none she drops her bag, wishing Margot or hell, anyone but Hannibal was here to help her.

"I need to sit down," she whispers, turning her face away from Hannibal in horror even as she reaches out for his assistance. Overwhelmed with emotion, Alana begins to cry.

He puts his arm gently around her shoulder, leading her to a chair. Once she is seated, he brings her a box of tissues, a glass of water, and placing them on a table within her reach before retreating to a respectful distance.

"I'm sorry, Alana. I shouldn't have frightened you. It isn't good for the baby."

She takes a moment to compose herself before she rolls her eyes. "Of course, the welfare of the baby is all you care about," she retorts without thinking. But she's upset enough not to fear whatever retribution Hannibal might seek for such a comment.

"I care about you a great deal, Alana. It's why you are still alive. But as you know, when one becomes a parent, one's priorities necessarily change."

Oh how she knows he's right, but she's not willing to concede the point until she's allowed herself a little more time for self pity.

She stares into space, wiping away her rapidly falling tears and attempting to calm herself. She chose this, she reminds herself, fully aware of Hannibal's capacity for casual cruelty.

The realisation only provokes deeper tears that wrack her chest with shallow sobs. But after a few minutes they subside, and she drinks deeply from the glass, looking to Hannibal.

"I have upset you," he says. "I should leave you for a time to compose yourself, and by way of further apology, buy you the best lunch in the city. With your permission, I shall collect you at noon."

He's being formal and distant to reassure her, to give her space to recover her equanimity.

But Hannibal also needs a little time and space, to come to terms with what he has just learned, and his feelings about it. And his feelings are, he has discovered, rather dangerous.

Alana nods, words still mostly beyond her as Hannibal leaves the room.

She longs for Margot, her gentle, soothing touch that is the antithesis of Hannibal's darker passion.

Alana is hesitant to call and reveal how upset she is, so settles for a text:

"Love you and miss you. Will be home as soon as I can AB".

There is no immediate response so Alana curls up on the bed, arms wrapped around a pillow.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lunch with a view, and lashings of innuendo.

At ten to twelve Alana wanders to the bathroom, salvaging her makeup half-heartedly. 

She is composed, if a little sullen, when she hears Hannibal's prompt knock on the door. She swings it open mechanically. 

"Lunch?" the question is accompanied by a perfectly raised eyebrow.

When she opens the door, Hannibal's head is completely hidden by an enormous bouquet of white roses, which he hands to her.

Alana takes the roses, burying her head in the bouquet. Of course they smell beautiful; Hannibal never does things by halves. 

"Thank you," She murmurs, her voice low and coy. 

Although Alana can appreciate the effort Hannibal is going to to get back in her good graces she remains wary, if a little more relaxed.

Hannibal has changed, into a light-colored suit and a crisp white shirt, though the clothes are still more casual than his usual style, and certainly more drab. He hasn't shaved, but he has had another shower: he feels more comfortable now that he no longer smells of Alana's floral soap and shampoo. 

He has also written a long letter to Will: a letter he cannot send, but which serves the same purpose as Alana's unanswered text to Margot--to provide a sense of connection, to remind himself of the reason he is here in Prague. 

And in the process, to give himself a talking to: he is not here to delve into his own emotions, and he is not here to frighten Alana any more than is necessary to achieve his aims. 

And yet, he is still shaken. Something fundamental has changed in his existence, something he truly never anticipated. However, Hannibal Lecter is very good at hiding, even from those who know him best. 

He smiles at Alana, as if his outburst never happened. "White roses suit you, I think, perhaps even better than red, even though red is your color. They set off your hair and skin. May I?" He plucks a single perfect bloom from the bouquet and tucks it into her hair. 

Then he gives her a white-wrapped parcel that he has been holding under his arm. "This is less romantic, but more important."

Alana forces herself to hold steady as Hannibal places the rose. She is ashamed of her fear; mostly she doesn't want to give Hannibal the satisfaction, as futile as pretending she isn't afraid of him is. 

Her brow furrows quizzically as she takes the package. She undoes the flamboyant ribbon bow and slips delicate fingers under the tape.

Inside nestles a red silk scarf--one which would look stunning with the grey boucle suit she wore yesterday, and also the precise shade of the pair of her panties that Hannibal found in her bathroom. It's wrapped around a bottle of prenatal vitamins. 

"Much more practical than roses, I'm afraid." 

When she removes the vitamins, a pair of delicate gold filigree earrings are beneath, each in the shape of a rose blossom.

As tempted as Alana is to approach the gift with a perfunctory attitude, she instead tries to take it in the spirit it was intended, as an olive branch of sorts. 

She threads the scarf between her fingers, enjoying the sensation of the silky fabric on her soft skin. She actually cracks a smile as she unearths the vitamins.

"This baby is going to be the most coddled baby on the planet." She says dryly. "Two doctors for parents." 

Alana shakes her head. She puts the vitamins aside, gasping softly as she spots the earrings. Fingering the delicate metalwork, she turns to Hannibal. "You sure know how to apologise!"

He smiles and shrugs. "So my apology is accepted?"

Alana's smile fades somewhat and she puts down the earrings. "You know it's not that simple." She glances over at the gifts again then back at Hannibal. 

"But for now, if we're going to do this, it will have to be enough." She adds resolutely.

"Ah, but I haven't taken you to lunch yet." He's regained his playfulness. It's a mask to reassure Alana, but she needn't know that. "Pop one of those vitamins and then we'll go."

Alana slugs back the pill with some water, wincing slightly at the size of it. Then she gathers up her purse, looking at Hannibal with equal playfulness. "So, where is this 'best lunch in Prague'?"

"Well...not precisely 'the best'. I haven't cooked it, after all. But I doubt you're ready to trust my kitchen just yet, so I hope that second best will be acceptable." He offers his arm.

Alana snorts with amusement, taking his arm. "I'm sure it'll be great. My palate is far less refined than yours after all."

"It's only a matter of practice, Alana." He leads her out of the hotel, hails a cab, and within a few minutes they're at another hotel. 

Hannibal takes her into the elevators and after a short ride they step out onto a roof terrace overlooking the old city. 

It's as if they're floating. Red tile roofs on white wedding-cake buildings, green-copper domes, the soaring castle, above it the blue sky, and below it all the broad, brown, glistening river. 

A piano plays somewhere in the background as the maître d' pulls out a chair for Alana at a table by the terrace edge. 

Hannibal orders sparkling water and grins at her. "Even if the food disappoints, this is still the best lunch in Prague, yes?"

"It's breathtaking," Alana agrees, unable to turn away from the view. It is so divorced from the snow and ice of Baltimore, even Muskrat Farm in high summer is more full of macabre memories than rustic charm. 

"I wonder if I could convince Margot to move to Europe." She muses softly "I bet there's some great schools here too." Still her eyes are on the view, though she is not consciously avoiding Hannibal's gaze, just genuinely enraptured.

This was what he hoped for when he chose to bring her here: to replace the fear with wonder. The two emotions are not so very different from each other, after all. 

And knowing what he knows now Hannibal no longer wants to frighten her. She knows the rules of this arrangement, and she knows his capabilities. That's enough. He feels protective of her, even from himself. 

"Travel broadens the mind, it's true. I don't believe it fundamentally changes our personalities, but there is nothing wrong about a change of view."

"I spend most of my days locked in my office. Trying to make up for letting you get away maybe, I don't know." She shrugged. "Or perhaps I just felt like if I was proactive I had a better chance of protecting my family. I suppose it's moot now." 

Alana glances at Hannibal, "It's been a while since I've been reminded of who I am outside the Verger machine." She strokes Hannibal's hand. "It can be hard to have perspective when the world's out to get you. Hopefully Margot can see I've taken care of part of that problem."

“Not the world. Only me." He tilts his head. "Vast wealth has its own demands and limitations. It becomes its own entity a machine, as you say, which must be constantly attended to. Do you resent that machine, when it gives you so much?" 

Alana exhales "I do. I mean I was perfectly capable of earning a living before I met Margot, now my career is for financial purposes merely a hobby. The only reason Margot allows me to continue is she knows I'd die of boredom without it, and at times she still resents the fact it takes away from the time I could be spending with her and Morgan. But I /need/ the outlet. I /need/ to know I'm making a difference." 

She meets Hannibal's eyes, an amused defiance rising in her expression. "I suppose you'll want me to take it easy. Stress can't be good for the baby."

"I wouldn't dictate your life beyond what we've agreed. Your work is important to you." Quirks his mouth. "Perhaps you should take extra care to avoid any bodily fluids that Multiple Miggs throws through the bars of his cell. For health reasons." 

The waiter pours them glasses of sparkling water, and leaves them to peruse their menus, which are in both Czech and English.

"How are my former fellow inmates? I can't say that I miss them."

"Same as ever, I suppose. It's less interesting without you there. Most of them fall neatly enough into their categories that their therapy is somewhat routine." 

She gives Hannibal a wicked grin "Except for the bodily fluids, I suppose."

He takes a long sip of water, and then puts his glass down. "An interesting professional question, Dr Bloom, which may have personal applications: when does the ingestion of bodily fluids cross the line over to cannibalism?" 

Alana flushes scarlet, irritated by Hannibal's calm, casual exterior. 

"By that logic we should be walking around carrying each other's missing limbs." Her voice trembles only slightly as she remembers all those moments she has consumed Hannibal's essence, and allowed him to consume hers in turn.

He suppresses a laugh, but only just. "Would you like to order lunch? I suggest you avoid the seafood and the soft cheese." His eyes are dancing with naughty humor at the double entendres. "No oysters, no...tentacles."

Alana's blush deepens, though her smile remains steady, holding Hannibal's gaze. "Perhaps a steak? Or maybe some sausage." 

Two can play at this game. 

She sucks gently at the straw in her water, tongue darting across her red lips to catch a stray droplet.

"You should order the sausage. I gather it's been a long time since you've had it regularly. And it's very satisfying."

You seem to be an expert on the subject now, Hannibal. What have you and Will been getting up to?"

A stab of missing Will. His body, his voice, his smile, at first reluctant, now more frequent. 

Despite this, Hannibal curls his lips into a wicked smile. "We've enjoyed sausage in an extraordinary range of variations. Will is becoming quite the connoisseur."

"Perhaps you should try the oysters then. Variety is the spice of life, after all. I imagine you'd get bored eating only sausage day in and day out." She playfully slips her knee between his, "We could both expand our horizons." 

"I dined extensively on oysters in Florence with Bedelia. Haven't touched a single one since." Raises an eyebrow. "Perhaps it's time to refresh my palate."

"I'm sure Margot could vouch for my particular flavour, if your memory needs jogging."

"No." He holds her gaze. "I never forget a flavor. And yours was divine."

A shiver runs through Alana’s body as another flashback pops into her head; 

Hannibal's hungry mouth nibbling and teasing her sex, broad fingers curved within her, expertly coaxing waves of pleasure from her body. 

Alana is so taken by the memory she forgets to answer Hannibal's quip. Instead she firmly crosses her legs beneath the table and sips water to relieve her suddenly parched mouth.

Hannibal sees the effect his words have had on her, and smiles.

If last night in the restaurant they would have appeared as a couple bent on mutual seduction, today they must appear to their fellow diners as lovers, drunk with pleasure, emerging from their bed only to engage in some public verbal foreplay before they once more disappear into their private world of intimacy. 

The waiter approaches them, almost hesitantly, and Hannibal orders spicy Czech sausage for Alana, oysters on ice for himself. 

"For old times' sake," he tells her.

Alana nods sharply, still trying to still her rapidly-beating heart. 

She is less concerned with appearances, being distracted. Perhaps she even deludes herself that their banter is leading somewhere, being caught in the storm of hormones as she currently is. 

"Your sausage has never disappointed me." She offers once she manages to gather herself somewhat.

It's unfair to lead her on, to encourage her desire, but Hannibal is enjoying this little performance...and as a man on the run from the law, the charade of being half of a couple is very useful. 

t's the same strategy he employed in Florence with Bedelia, a situation no less fraught with delicious sexual tension and gradations of fear. In Florence, however, it was before he and Will has given themselves to each other. He had license to act on his attraction, which in the present situation, he does not. 

Still, flirtation is flirtation, an ancient and beautiful game, played for its own sake. 

"I'm told I'm a very good cook," he says to her with a smile. "And I certainly enjoyed giving you pleasure. Do you remember which of the dishes we enjoyed together was your favourite?"

Alana forces herself to breathe, feeling her cheeks pink again at the question. "You're such an expert with sausage it's not an easy choice to make." 

Her hands tighten around her glass. 

In her mind’s eye she sees Hannibal looming above her, angling her slender thighs upward in order to penetrate her most deeply. 

"I think when you looked me in the eye." She replied with some embarrassment. She didn't want him to think her overly sentimental or romantic, even if in truth she was, despite her pragmatism.

"I have many happy memories," Hannibal says thoughtfully, and truthfully, "but I think my favourite is of watching you learn to play the theremin. There is something intensely erotic about watching your lover caressing the air, and imagining them drawing music from your body."

"It's a very sensual instrument, and it was an incredibly erotic experience to have you teach me so intimately."

"But you still thought it sounded awful. You can admit it, now. I've already promised not to kill you." 

Alana smiled "It's not to my tastes, I'll admit." She bites her lip "But maybe that's because I was distracted by other things.”

"It was a distracting situation," he agrees, although truthfully Hannibal is rarely distracted. 

His concentration is as complete as his memory, and he remembers that moment with absolute clarity. She was terrible at the theremin, and utterly charming while playing it. Free of art and guile, seductive without knowing she was being so. 

Under the table, he touches her foot with his, and he smiles at her with warmth and fondness.

Even the slight touch is searingly intense, and Alana's chest heaves as she returns Hannibal's warm gaze and smile. Her stomach is a knot of unspent desire brought on by her dangerous flirtation with Hannibal. 

She is relieved when the waiter arrives with their meals, though the suggestive nature of their selections promises that the erotic thrum between them will remain close to the surface.

"Bon appetit," says Hannibal. "I hope this sausage satisfies, even though it is not mine." 

He lifts an oyster on the half shell off the mound of ice where it rests. Closes his eyes, inhaling its salty tang. Then tilts it past his lips, into his mouth. Savours, and swallows, feeling her eyes on him through the entire performance.

Alana can't help but stare at Hannibal's precise and deliberate movements. 

When he opens his eyes she meets them, delicately slipping a sliver of sausage past her lips. Despite the spice she feels she can almost taste him, her memory of his cock slipping deliciously past her lips, swollen and hungry, vivid in her mind.

He lifts another oyster, noticing the sensual twist of her lips, the telltale flush on her cheeks. 

Margot is in for a treat, when Alana gets home, he thinks, with half a smile. Will might receive some special attention too. He wonders if his lover will be perceptive enough to intuit why, once Hannibal has told him whom he was meeting and for what purpose. 

The thought gives him a stab of loneliness, which he tries to assuage with another salty-sweet, slippery oyster. 

He swallows, and says, "An oyster is an obvious metaphor, but in fact you tasted very little like these. Your taste was subtler, and varied each time I tasted you, depending on the time of day, what you wore, the time in your cycle." 

He pauses as the waiter refills their water glasses. The man clearly understands English, because he is blushing furiously, which amuses Hannibal and also helps distract him from his sadder thoughts. 

Consideringly, and more than a little naughtily, he says, "I wonder how you taste today."

Alana feels her crotch clench at Hannibal's words, almost but not quite a proposition. 

Heat rises through her body unbidden, her chest tightens and her heart begins to race. 

Carefully Alana puts down her cutlery. "Excuse me." She murmurs absently, getting up from her seat and obtaining directions to the bathroom from the stammering waiter. 

It is as luxurious as the restaurant itself, but Alana couldn't care less about the cloth towels or tray of toiletries. 

She is shaking slightly as she locks herself in the far stall. Alana leans back against the tile, hands roaming to cup her pert breasts, easily teasing her nipples to hard points. But there are other parts of her anatomy commanding more of her attention. 

She unbuttons her trousers and slips her hand beneath the waistband of her lace underwear, a whimper escaping her lips as her fingers brush over her clitoris. It doesn't take long for Alana to find release, once she finds a rhythm, armed with the fantasies Hannibal has seeded in her head. 

She whimpers softly as she cums, imagining herself cradled in Hannibal's arms with his fingers torturing her with pleasure. 

When her legs begin to feel steady again, she washes her hands and returns to the table, knowing full well Hannibal will be able to smell sex on her, as if the flush on her chest wasn't obvious enough.

He has ordered two glasses of wine for them in her absence, partly to give the flustered waiter something to do, partly because he feels they could both use one. 

He knows he should not be so provocative, if only because Will would be cross with him for toying with their old friend's emotions. But on another tack, surely it's beneficial for them that this baby has been conceived out of genuine desire? 

But above all...Hannibal is having fun. And he finds it very, very difficult to deny himself fun.

She doesn't take long; he's had only a single savouring sip of wine before Alana returns. His nostrils flare as he catches her scent, and his smile is wide and knowing and more than a little wolfish as she resumes her seat. 

"Do you feel better?"

Hannibal's smile is enough to undo any relief she gained from her frantic fumblings in the restaurant bathroom. 

"I think so." She lies, gulping down the wine to try and drown her screaming senses. She needs some prolonged attention, a place with real privacy and a lover who has the patience to work her to the point of exhaustion. 

Of course it's all futile; she can hardly take on a lover in light of the fact she's trying to conceive Hannibal's child, putting Margot aside for the moment. 

"I don't know how much more of this I can take, Hannibal." She confesses with some irritation. She's lost interest in her food, in the flirtatious game they're playing. "The hormones are bad enough without you deliberately trying to make me crazy."

Her voice has gone throaty, and her pupils are wide with desire. Her hands are unsteady on her glass. 

He wonders what her fantasies were, during her quick and desperate act in semi-private. If they were memories, or a new scenario dreamt up by her fevered brain. 

He could ask her, but he won't. He doesn't wish that things were different. Will is the love he never dreamed he could have, the other half of his soul. Faithfulness is a small and easy price to pay. 

But he could wish that, for an afternoon, he and Alana could travel back in time, to when they were lovers, to when she did not fear him, to when she was bright and innocent and opened herself to him fully. That for an afternoon he could show her with his body how beautiful she is, wring screams from her not of horror, but pleasure. 

See, instead of this uneasy, frustrated woman across the table from him, Alana Bloom abandoned and wild beneath him, or after her climax, soft and unfocused on the pillow beside him. He remembers it all. And their friendship, even more precious than the pleasures they shared. 

Hannibal draws a small sigh. "You don't have to endure this for much longer. I can leave this afternoon."

"It's not that I want you to go, I just wish you'd stop making me want things I can't have." She takes a breath in an attempt to calm her irritable tone. 

A kiss from Hannibal right now would probably be enough to send her tumbling into orgasm and she hates that he has such power over her. 

"Besides, we need to try again." Her tone is almost guilty, knowing this time She will likely gain erotic pleasure from the rather clinical act of injecting Hannibal's sperm inside of her.

He shakes his head. "There's no need to try again." Aware of the bombshell he's dropped, he calmly eats another oyster.

"What?" Alana is confused "You don't want to be sure?"

"I am sure. You are pregnant. Enkindled." He pronounces the words with relish. "You are carrying my child, or the cells which will become my child. All that remains to be done now is for you to nurture, and time to pass."

Alana’s jaw drops in disbelief. "How can you possibly be so sure? It's been less than a day. You're perceptive, not psychic."

"Your chemical balance has shifted. The change is quite extraordinary, and almost instantaneous. Your scent is different, and when I tasted your blood, that was different too." 

He smiles, with more than a hint of mischief. "If I were to do to you, what I have been doing to these oysters metaphorically in your place, I am sure I would taste the difference there, as well." 

He shrugs. "But you've been pregnant before; you know your body best. If you are not certain, it will do no harm to try again."

Alana looked askance at Hannibal. He really expected her to believe he could smell her pregnancy? When she was pregnant with Morgan she hadn't known until she'd taken the test in Margot's ensuite, and even then it took her a few weeks to feel any different. 

"Let's try again. I don't know if I trust your nose that much."

He shrugs. "As you wish. It's my pleasure," he adds with a knowing twitch of his lip.

Alana closes her eyes, trying to shut out the mental image of Hannibal in a hotel bathroom, cock in hand, breathing ragged. Naturally it only intensifies the vision. 

"Of course it is." She retorts wryly. “I hope you're going to apologise to Margot."

"For what, precisely, should I apologise to Margot? For flirting with you? Impregnating you? Sparing your life?" He sips his wine. "I can't say that I honestly feel apologetic for any of those."

"I was thinking more for the fact that we're not going to be leaving our bedroom for at least three days after I get home. She'll miss Morgan." Alana raised an eyebrow "Or at least she'll claim to."

"Somehow I don't think Margot will require an apology. She may be more likely to want to thank me."

"For bringing the passion back into her relationship? Maybe. I bet she'll be suspicious though. I'll book a romantic weekend away when I get back, send Morgan to a friend's house or something."

"A very sensible plan. You will want to reconnect with your wife; reassure her, and yourself." He nods to her nearly untouched lunch. "Was sausage not to your taste, after all?"

"Let's just say my appetite right now is concerned with a very different kind of sausage. I'll eat later." By which she means once Hannibal has departed and she has sated her lust between the starched sheets of the hotel bed; she always travels with a reliable selection of the vast toy collection she and Margot own.

"I'm sorry I can't offer you one of these oysters. They're delicious. But raw shellfish isn't wise for a pregnant woman." He finishes the final oyster on his plate. 

"What next then, Alana? The promised shopping and sightseeing, or would you prefer to go back to your hotel room and make me perform once more?"

"You make it sound like I'd have some involvement in the process." Alana's tone borders on bitterness.

"You do." He signals for the bill.

Alana rubs her temples in a futile attempt to relieve her frustration. "Tangentially so." She concedes. "Let's do this, then. I need to find something nice for Margot and Morgan."

"Thrice in twelve hours," comments Hannibal as he pays the waiter, who is once again blushing furiously. "You're a demanding woman. I hope I'm up for it." He winks at the waiter, and adds a large tip.

"You've bettered that before." Alana adds teasingly. "You know exactly how demanding I can be. Insatiable even."

The waiter sputters. "I hope you have...an enjoyable afternoon," he manages, and flees. 

Hannibal exchanges a conspiratorial glance with Alana, and draws her arm through his as they leave. 

"Do you think that he is also making an emergency trip to the restroom, for the same purposes that you did? And which I will do, presently?"

“Maybe I should help him out." Alana suggests in a deadpan tone, a quiet thrill going through her to be on Hannibal's arm. 

"He could help me scratch my itch." She looks seriously at Hannibal for a moment before breaking into giggles.

He smiles down at her. "He will have to scratch someone else's itch, or his own. I want no question of the parentage of this child." 

He draws her a tiny bit closer, to murmur in her ear. "Besides, you wouldn't be satisfied with him. More a cocktail wiener than a big, meaty kielbasa."

"Hannibal...." Alana’s voice is a plaintive whimper, eyes slipping closed, teeth sinking again into that well-worn bottom lip.

He pauses in mock concern. "You seem quite distracted. Maybe we should do a little shopping now, take your mind off forbidden fruit. You promised to find a suit for me; you could help me in the changing room."

Alana lets out a long exhale. Get it together, she tells herself silently. "Aren't you afraid of what an ovulating, hormone crazed, possibly pregnant lady might do to a vulnerable gentleman such as yourself?"

"Oh, I think I can trust you. We're both grown adults, after all. In any case, you've seen me numerous times without clothes on. It's nothing new to you." He says teasingly.

Alana wants to reply that she's not sure she can trust herself. But she wants to prove to Hannibal she can keep her feelings in check; it is almost a point of pride for her. 

Besides, the idea of him wearing something she has chosen makes this mad adventure they're on seem more real. 

"Okay then, a suit. But then you'll have to take me to a good jeweller. For Margot. And are there any good toy stores in Prague?"

"Of course. I think I will enjoy those errands, as well." He hails a cab and speaks rapid Czech, and soon they are pulling up outside a men's fine tailoring shop. 

As they walk in, he speaks softly, with some regret: "Of course, it will have to be off the peg, rather than bespoke. And nothing too noticeable...for obvious reasons." 

He touches a brightly patterned silk tie with more than a little envy of his past self. Still, even in his relatively nondescript suit, with his unshaven chin, he is obviously totally at home in this world of wools and linens, silks and patterns.

"Something nondescript. Got it. I'm thinking something dark, less likely to get paw marks on it." Alana begins to rifle through a rack, pulling out a few suits, passing them off to Hannibal until she has chosen a few. "Grey always suited you."

He narrows his eyes slightly. "This isn't a comment on my hair color, is it? Because I hold you directly responsible for every hair that went grey whilst I was under your supervision at the BSHCI."

"And I hold you directly responsible for every grey hair you gave me." Alana’s mouth twisted into a smirk. "Keeping tabs on you wasn't exactly smooth sailing, even with that level of security."

“Ah, but you have no grey hairs, Alana. Or at least, none in places that I have seen recently." 

"My hairdresser would beg to differ." Alana snarks.

He smiles, and holds up the suits she has given him. "Shall I try these? See if they flatter me more than the outfits you found for me in the hospital?"

She follows him into the spacious changing area, loitering just outside the curtain.

"Your hairdresser does a very thorough job, then." Hannibal takes the suits into the changing cubicle and undresses, hanging up his own clothes carefully. "Now is the time when we see if you remember my measurements."

"I still have them on file at the hospital. You'd be surprised at what people think is relevant when it comes to diagnosing your unique psychology." 

Alana sneaks a peek between the gap in the curtain, catching Hannibal stepping his muscular legs into a pair of trousers. She's transfixed for a moment until he turns towards her and she withdraws abruptly.

He senses her at the curtain, and pretends not to notice. 

"Yes, my waistline is directly correlated to my own particular pathology. Were you able to auction off my remaining prison overalls to the highest bidder?" 

He pulls up the trousers of the first suit, and frowns. He thought he'd lost weight, somewhat, being on the run, but these barely button. Vowing to adopt an even higher-protein diet, he discards the first suit and reaches for the second.

"That would be the kind of unethical behaviour a certain former hospital director and your biographer would've engaged in. I suppose I fancy myself morally superior to Chilton." 

She steps close to take another peek, this time disturbing the curtain "How is it going in there?" She asks as a cover.

"I'm just trying the second suit now." Which is, in contrast to the first, enormous, bagging off waist and thighs. 

Oh, for the simple pleasure of a proper hand-tailored suit, fitted to his body. Out of curiosity, he puts on the jacket; the sleeves dangle down past his knuckles. 

"This one could double as a straight jacket." He removes it all quickly, standing in his shirt, boxers and socks. 

"By the way, out of interest, what did you do with my prison clothes? ...Not that I want them back, though the tailoring on them was a bit better than this last suit."

Alana smiles at the sight of Hannibal half undressed and her grin broadens at the ill-fitting suit. Somehow knowing how frustrated Hannibal must be pleases her. "Oh, nothing major. I couldn't risk them being souvenired by the staff so I locked them, and all your other personal effects in my office."

"How very sweet. Your own personal reminder of our time together. I wonder if you ever sniff the collars of my jumpsuits to get my scent and remember the time when I was completely under your power." 

He had never been so, of course, but enough so that the memory of it still chafed and bit. "I still haven't forgiven you for the toilet."

She avoids Hannibal's first question. 

"You brought that on yourself. I make no apologies." 

He doesn't need to know that she has spent hours upon hours combing through his belongings for any sign of where he might have gone or what he might be doing. But of course, Hannibal is too smart for that. "Did you think I'd curl up with your clothing like a lost lover?"

"It's a beautiful and poignant image, is it not? Almost a subject for art. The Faithful Maiden and the Prison Jumpsuit. Or perhaps a Hieronymos Bosch: The Demon's Lover With His Empty Mask." 

He tries on the third suit, and like a fairy tale, this one is just right: a light wool two-piece in grey with a subtle blue check, with trousers that emphasize his long legs and narrow hips, and a single-breasted jacket that nicely hugs his broad shoulders. He admires it from all angles in the mirror and then pulls open the changing room curtains, deliberately startling Alana standing close on the other side.

"It's perfect." She breathes, stepping inside and watching the pair of them in the mirror, her hands reaching out for his shoulders from behind, drifting over the muscle and down the lapels of the jacket. They glance over his stomach and thighs before withdrawing. 

"You almost look like your old self." She substitutes the word easily, as if she had been looking with her hands.

"And how do I feel?" Hannibal is amused.

Alana stands on her tip toes, resting her head on his shoulder. Her voice is hot in his ear. "Like I'm very jealous of Will right now."

He's flattered, of course. "Will doesn't take much notice of what I wear. But if you're jealous that he gets to unwrap me, then I'll take that as an indication that I should definitely get this suit."

"Allow me. Consider it a token of my affection." She kisses his cheek.

"Thank you. But only if you will consent to pay in cash. I would hate for your kind gift to become the mechanism of my recapture." 

He inclines his head to hers in their reflection in the mirror. "I'm in no hurry to resume the straight jacket and mask."

"Of course." She lingers a moment longer, inhaling his scent before she reluctantly pulls away. "I'll meet you out there."

“No need. If you like it so much, I'll wear it now." 

It is, in fact, a risk to allow Alana to buy him something even slightly distinctive, something that might be traced, but he has a weakness for good clothes, and his vanity likes the way Alana is looking at him. 

He walks with her to the till, seemingly casual but in actuality watching to ensure she keeps her word and doesn't use a credit card to pay.

Alana empties the cash from her wallet, enjoying Hannibal's closeness. She hopes he will think of her when he wears the suit. Even if he is with Will. 

"Let's take a stroll, I'm sure I can find something for Morgan near here." Alana slips her hand into Hannibal's, all the better to show him off.

Once again, Hannibal is entertained by the schism between their appearance and their reality, their actions and their conversation. 

He squeezes Alana's hand and kisses her cheek. "Thank you for the suit," he says.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alana and Hannibal do some shopping and try again before they depart Prague.

As dangerous as it is to have describable clothing, and as dangerous as it is in another sense to flaunt the gifts of a former lover before the eyes of the present lover, he may just risk wearing this suit for Will. 

For now, he enjoys Alana's glances, as they stroll down the street lined with historic buildings. In the shop windows' reflections, they make a very handsome couple indeed. 

"What about there?" He nods to an old-fashioned toy shop across the road, with a carved and brightly painted wooden train set in the window.

Alana’s eyes twinkle as they walk through the cobbled streets. It feels good to be at Hannibal's side, even if her exact role is ambiguous. It is enough to be able to share the sunny afternoon with him. 

Her eyes widen at the sight of the train set. “Yes, let's look here. It's so hard to find good toys back home. Everything is plastic and branded. I've been trying to get Morgan into science and music, just so I don't have to buy into all of that. Maybe you can help me pick something since you're going to be family now."

He raises an eyebrow at the word "family," but doesn't comment on it. "I'd be delighted. And I should probably get in some practice with shopping for toys."

"I usually let Margot do it. She’s more patient that I am. I got him a telescope for his last birthday though. He's a night owl like me." 

Alana zeroes in on the train set "My brothers had something like this when we were kids. I was so jealous."

"I'm surprised you didn't commandeer it from them. You're not the type to let males boss you around." He selects a wooden xylophone, and plays a quick tune. "This is sweet, though you might find it even worse than the theremin."

“I'm not sure I would suffer too much with how much I work. But Margot might." She grinned. "I could always blame you, I suppose."

"I thought you were trying to make it up to Margot, not torture her eardrums." 

He puts down the xylophone and selects an elaborate doctor dressing-up kit, with lab coat, stethoscope, blood pressure cuff, and doctor's bag complete with bottles of pill-shaped sweets and blunt syringes. 

"What about this? Morgan could train to be just like Mommy and Uncle Hannibal."

"Dress ups are definitely less dangerous than instruments. Margot is already trying to talk me out of violin lessons." 

Her grin widened "I guess I have a sadistic streak after all."

"Don't let her talk you out of violin lessons. You have a very big house, and everyone should be able to make some sort of music." Hannibal says seriously. 

He indicates an easel and paint set. "Or art. Life is more beautiful when we create beauty."

"You know my musical skill is rudimentary at best. And I'm no artist either. But I like to think I have creative flair when it comes to fashion at least." 

She rattles the box of a jigsaw puzzle depicting the horsehead nebula. "He's well past the phase of trying to eat everything, thank goodness."

"I think you could quite happily buy this entire shop for him, couldn't you?" He smiles. "It must be a pleasure as a parent, to indulge your child."

"It is in some respects. But Margot and I want him to have as normal a childhood as possible. We can't indulge him all the time or he runs the risk of becoming a spoilt brat. Nor do we reward him for good behaviour; being an honourable person is just plain decency. But Margot is a softer touch than I am, she dotes on him.” 

“I seek more to develop his mind."

"Then as an indulgent uncle I recommend a frivolous toy, just for fun and not for improvement. The train set gets my vote."

"I could live with that. It's the kind of thing we'd both enjoy. Can you get it boxed up for me? My Czech's a little rusty."

"Of course." With his usual charm, he goes to speak with the shopkeeper to arrange purchase of the set. 

The elderly Czech gentleman is delighted at their choice and as he boxes the toy, tells Hannibal in great detail about the hand carving of each piece. 

"My grandchildren have a similar set and they play with it daily," he tells Hannibal. "They have names for all the carriages. Is your child a little boy or a little girl?" 

The question, such a normal one, takes Hannibal by surprise. It's the automatic assumption that he is a parent. That he might be giving this set to his own child. 

The truth of what he and Alana are doing, the future they are making, strikes him forcibly, and tears well up in his eyes. 

"We...don't know yet," Hannibal says, and the man, understanding what Hannibal is saying, breaks into an even broader smile and comes out from behind the counter to shake first Alana's hand, then Hannibal's. 

"Blahopřejeme rodiče!" he says to a bemused Alana, and then proceeds to wrap the box with an elaborate bow, and tuck a small toy giraffe under the ribbon. 

"To je dárek pro vaše dítě," he says happily, and Hannibal nods, unable to speak, overwhelmed at the thought of becoming a father.

Alana has no idea exactly what's been said, but the cheer of the shopkeeper is infectious. She returns the handshake with the warmest of smiles, taking Hannibal's arm reassuringly. She can tell he is overcome with emotion, about their child, no doubt. 

The shopkeeper has also noticed Hannibal's tears and tells him, "Don't worry, I felt the same way with my first. By the fourth, it wears off!" He laughs, takes Alana's money, and escorts them proudly out of his shop. 

Hannibal is still not composed, his eyes still brimming. 

"I think...I may need to sit down."

"Of course.” 

Alana pulls Hannibal into a nearby cafe, waving down a waiter. 

"Coffee" She says urgently, repeating it a few times until she is understood, never letting go of Hannibal's hand. Seeing him vulnerable is at once terribly distressing and comforting at the same time. He has such humanity, despite everything.

He bows his head and allows her to hold his hand. He speaks quietly, not showing her his face. 

"My own childhood was…cut short. The joy on that man's face reminded me of an innocence I never thought I would experience again." 

Even this little bit is more than he ever revealed to her in years of friendship, years when she was his psychiatric inquisitor. 

"I never thought that I would be...that I would truly have, and truly love, a child."

Alana gathers him in her arms, letting him hide his face against her shoulder. 

"I'm sorry, I never knew. I would've been more sensitive about this whole caper." 

She is a nurturer, and she speaks softly to him. "I know that you and Will will love this child. And even if its upbringing is unconventional, you will instill a strong moral code and healthy respect. You may well struggle with it for a while, but I would never entrust my baby to anyone who I didn't believe could love it."

He rests against her, letting her hold him. He doesn't quite require comfort, nor reassurance, though that is what she is consciously offering. 

What he needs is what she is giving him possibly without knowing it: confirmation that this is real, that it is possible--no, probable. That his life is about to change and to offer wonders which he never dared to hope for. 

His tears wet the shoulder of her jacket and soak through to her skin. And his hand, almost of its own accord, steals to her flat stomach and lays itself there, where life is already blooming inside her.

After she has reassured him verbally, Alana falls silent, knowing Hannibal's distaste for superfluous words. 

But Alana keeps hold of him. Her small form offers almost motherly comfort. 

She swallows a gasp of surprise as Hannibal's hand finds her stomach. Her hand closes shakily over his, interleaving their fingers as they feel for the currently imperceptible signs of life.

"I will love it, Alana," he whispers. "Will and I will love him or her. Our son or daughter."

It is Alana’s turn to cry. She sniffles softly as she kisses Hannibal's forehead. 

The waiter discreetly places their coffee and a sweet pastry on the table, not wanting to disturb the intimate moment.

He is suddenly, violently, homesick for Will. And 'homesick' is the correct word: for all their travels since they plummeted off that cliff together into the sea, Will and he have become each other's home. 

A baby will only make it more complete. If he could, he would instantly fly to Will's side, to hold him and tell him that they will be parents, to see his face when he realizes truly, as Hannibal has just done, how their lives will change, how their love will multiply. 

(There is a fair to good chance, he knows, that Will won't be instantly overjoyed with the news. A more than fair chance, to be strictly honest, that Will is going to be extremely angry that Hannibal arranged all of this behind his back, without his knowledge or consent. But they'll work through that little glitch. Hannibal is confident of that. And then Will is going to be as happy as Hannibal is, if not even more so.) 

Hannibal straightens, though he keeps his hand on Alana's belly. He finds a napkin and wipes his tears off his cheeks. "You're crying too?" he asks, wiping hers away as well.

"Must be the hormones." She laughs. "And it is exciting, if a little daunting." 

She prods at the pastry. "You should eat something, get your blood sugar up." 

Alana waves her hands in front of her face, trying to stem the flow of happy tears. "I cried at the drop of a hat when I was pregnant with Morgan. Your nose must be right."

He takes a bite of the pastry, but doesn't remove his hand from Alana's stomach. "You think I'm right? So you don't want to try again?” 

Deep down Alana knows she's pregnant, the signs, from her insatiable hormones to her tears, are unmistakable. 

But she is not ready to let go of this intimacy with Hannibal yet. She longs for the thrill of him bringing himself pleasure, more or less at her command. 

More than that she longs to pleasure herself also, to make this final attempt more intimate than the last two. 

"We should try one more time, just to be sure." The lie falls easily from her lips, even as she meets his gaze.

She's lying.

For someone trained in the devious secrets of the human mind, Alana has never been a good liar. Her eyes go self-consciously steady, and her voice becomes more vehement, as if she feels guilty about the mere fact of telling an untruth and has to convince herself as well as her audience that she isn't actually lying. 

She knows that he is right: that she is already pregnant. But she wants to perform this strange intimacy by proxy again. before they part and go back to their separate lives, joined only by their past and this life that grows inside her. 

It's probably his own fault; he has, admittedly, been doing his very best to tease and tantalize her. 

But although he knows that he's right and that she is already carrying his child, a large part of him wants to try again. As if repetition could make her even more pregnant and this baby even more real. 

It's irrational. But sometimes our irrational urges are what make us most human. Hannibal has discovered that he wants this baby very, very much. 

And so he says, "You're right. On occasion, my nose has been known to be wrong. We will try again." 

He sips his coffee, glad Alana has ordered it for them. "Shall we find a gift for Margot and then go back to your room?"

Alana nods, pleased with how easily she has secured Hannibal's agreement. "I'm sure you know somewhere I can find something suitably decadent." 

She sips her coffee, her hand still resting on Hannibal's. "We'd best not leave it too late, if you're going to make it back to Will in good time." 

It stings just a very little, releasing someone who she has such tremendous affection for to another. But she also cares enough about Hannibal to grant him his happiness, even if it means substituting the Hannibal of reality with the Hannibal of her imagination, her memory.

"I miss him badly," admits Hannibal. "It seems wrong that he's not here to share this."

"Maybe he could come to the birth? I'd like you both to be there, if you want to."

The mental image is instant: Alana on a bed, her hair damp with sweat, her face the picture of concentration, Margot holding her hand and urging, "Push!" Between her legs, Hannibal in his surgical gown, gently guiding the baby out of her, delivering it safe, hot and slippery into his hands. He hands the baby, still attached by umbilicus, to Will, who smiles down at it, this new life wet with blood and amniotic fluid, still part of its mother, drawing its first breath of air. 

In the present, Hannibal's own breath catches. "Perhaps," he says, the longing in him for a child inextricable from his longing for Will. "It's kind of you to suggest it."

Alana shrugs it off. "It's only common sense. It will be as much yours and Will's child as it is mine." 

The thought of Hannibal seeing her in such an indelicate state doesn't faze Alana; they have been friends so long his presence seems only natural.

Hannibal regards her carefully. Surely she has not forgotten that she will be giving this baby up? 

"It is fitting that both Will and I should be there, if we can. This child is biologically yours, but Will and I are the parents."

"Of course, I never meant to imply otherwise. I'd much rather you were there from the start. It will reduce the likelihood of me bonding as a mother to the child."

She will bond with the child; he is certain she will. She has done so already, to a certain extent. But that is an obstacle to overcome later, through whatever means are necessary. 

He does feel compassion for Alana, however; a great deal. He picks up her hand, linked with his, and kisses it. "Thank you," he says again.

It's starting to settle in that she's going to have Hannibal's baby. Pregnancy brings out her sentimental side, but she would be feeling emotional about the situation regardless, she imagines. He has been such a long and important figure in her life and tears spring up in her eyes as he kisses her hand. 

"You're welcome." Her voice is an emotional whisper.

He smiles at her. "So much for being inconspicuous. Soon, we're going to be banned from every restaurant and café in this city." 

He pushes her coffee over to her, and holds up the pastry he's just tasted. "Bite?"

Alana readily tastes the pastry, her barely-touched lunch starting to catch up with her. The rich coffee provides the perfect complement to the sweetness of the pastry. Before she knows it, the entire thing has disappeared. She licks sticky flakes of pastry from her fingers, looking guiltily at Hannibal. 

"Sorry, I guess I was hungry."

"You must have been hungry. You hardly touched your sausage at lunch." He regards her indulgently. "Would you like another?"

"Why not." She flashed him a sardonic smile "I'm going to need to be well fortified for discovering the price tag of Margot's gift. What is it the Czech are famous for? Crystal?"

"Crystal and glass--vintage Bohemian jewellery is quite exquisite. And yes: expensive." 

He orders her another pastry and more coffee for himself. "You shouldn't have too much caffeine," he tells her, almost apologetically.

"What about sugar?" She looks hopefully at Hannibal "I could get used to pastry." She shrugs "I'm going to get gloriously fat anyway, I may as well enjoy it."

"Pregnancy diabetes." He shakes a finger at her in mock strictness. "You weren't fat when you were pregnant with Morgan. In court you appeared to be your normal slender self, with a distinct bump. It was diverting to watch you grow."

"That was Margot's doing. She had all my meals prepared under the guidance of a nutritionist. And constantly raided my stash of chocolate. It was hard to keep my energy up without it, especially in those last few months."

"I'll arrange for a monthly delivery to be made to your office for the duration of your pregnancy." 

He tilts his head. "Will Margot be similarly solicitous for this pregnancy, do you think, as it's not her child?"

"If she's not I can arrange it myself. But I'm sure she wants to keep me in good health. And keep me happy."

"It's true. Taking good care of you is probably the one way that Margot will be able to feel in control of this situation And after the childhood she had, it's valuable to her to feel that she has some control and self-determination. We have removed that almost entirely from her in this case, poor girl." He sips his coffee, looking entirely unconcerned, despite his words.

"I'll smooth things over with her. I'm sure you'll have a similar task with Will, I can't imagine he's going to be overjoyed when you first tell him what we've done." 

She shrugs "I am confident if I remind Margot enough of why I'm doing this her rational mind will prevail."

Tenderly, he brushes a stray flake of pastry from her lip with his finger. "Because I will kill you if you do not.

Alana shivers, more from Hannibal's chilling words than the intimacy of his touch. "You'll get your baby, Hannibal, and I Will do everything in my power to make sure he or she is born healthy."

He absorbs her shiver. "I know that you will, even without reminding of what's at stake." He sighs. "And you are right. I'm going to have to do some sweet-talking to get Will to accept all of this. But he will."

"I'm always happy to provide reassurance to him, whether remotely or in person. I may be doing this for my own benefit, but Will has been a good friend to me. I want him to be okay."

"Thank you. Perhaps after...we make our final attempt." 

"Are you feeling better? We should finish up the shopping so we can,-" She breaks off awkwardly fishing for the right phrase "-try again." She is at once anxious for the intimacy and fearing its end.

"Yes, I'm all right now." 

Though is he? He's about to engage in an act that they both know is unnecessary: Alana through attachment to him, and he out of attachment to a child who is currently no more than a few cells and an idea. 

He has a feeling that Dr Bedelia Du Maurier would have a few tart and cutting words to say about this irrational behaviour. And Will Graham might say a few things, as well, even though he's no stranger to acting out of pure emotion. 

He finishes his coffee, and stands. "I haven't seen Margot for some time. What sort of style does she favour these days?"

"Elegant as ever." Alana smiles at the thought of her wife. 

"I want something dramatic that will take her breath away. And mine, when she wears it." Alana's eyes twinkle. "I enjoy spoiling her, even if it is as an apology."

"Ah." He speaks a few sentences in Czech to a couple sitting nearby, and gets a smiling and detailed reply. 

"I know just where to go." 

He picks up the large toy box and they walk together to a narrow street in the old quarter, lined with shops under colored awnings. 

He pauses in front of a shop. Its window is filled with displays of deep red garnets, set in gold and silver, sparkling the color of blood under the afternoon sun. 

"I'll wait outside, if you don't mind. I think this is a bit too intimate a purchase for my involvement to be appropriate."

Alana nods. It takes her eyes a few moments to adjust to the dim lighting in the shop. The jewellery glistens and her eyes drift over the precious wares. Each and every piece is stunning, and she is thankful she doesn't have to settle for just one piece for Margot. 

She decides on getting something for the everyday and something elaborate. The first choice is easy, a sparkling garnet, the size of a grape, cut into a tear-drop and suspended on a gold chain. 

The second choice is difficult until she reaches the case at the far end of the shop. It catches her eye immediately; a choker of antique crystal, clouded blue-green beads cascading down the front. 

Happily, the shopkeeper speaks enough English to quickly have the purchases wrapped. He is jubilant at her casual purchase of two of the most expensive items in the shop, and slips his card into the bag, thanking her in broken English as she leaves. 

She blinks again as she steps outside, taking Hannibal's arm. "Shall we?"

He nods, and starts to walk with her back in the direction of her hotel. "You found something you liked?"

"Some/things/ actually. I think I made the jeweller's day." She quickly shows Hannibal her purchases, imagining fastening the choker around Margot's slender neck. 

"I'm just glad we have an accountant to reconcile the credit card statement. It was an extravagant purchase, even by Verger standards."

And something that will alert Margot to exactly where they are, if she chooses to be governed by fear rather than by caution and to alert Interpol, or the Verger family private investigators...if there are any left, after the slaughter Hannibal indulged in at Muskrat Farm. Hannibal, however, says nothing about this. 

"Your taste is exquisite," he merely comments.

"I know." Alana replies cockily, arching a brow. "Do you need anything? Before we try again?" She pauses at the entrance to the hotel, suddenly hesitant.

He also pauses. He would like to find a gift for Will, but the same impulse that kept him from entering the jeweller's shop also stops him from mentioning it to Alana. He is sharing so much with Alana, including the process of creating life. He would like his gift to Will to be from him alone. Private to the two of them. 

Deciding he will find it after he leaves Alana but before he leaves Prague, he shakes his head. "No, I'm ready whenever you are."

Alana squeezes his hand and strides purposefully towards the elevators. Beneath her bravado, her nerves begin to spike and she has to make a conscious effort not to pace as they ride up to her room. She steals a glance at Hannibal for courage and opens the door with shaking hands.

"Are you all right?" he asks, setting the large box containing the toy set on a table. "You seem a bit nervous." He has a good idea of why she is, but he can't resist making her squirm a little.

Alana is on edge for a number of reasons, but only one is she willing to admit to Hannibal. 

She fears their parting, the end of this brief and bright encounter. It has made her realise how she misses his companionship, dangerous though he may be. 

Her unsatiated desire is a convenient excuse. Let him think her hungry for his body, just as he has been encouraging all day. But God forbid he learn that now she would gladly send her son on European summers, that she doesn't fear losing her unborn child anywhere near as much as she fears the permanent absence of Hannibal in her life. 

She is pragmatic enough to realise he will never feel for her the way he feels for Will, and she's okay with that. To engage with his mind and a little innocent flirtation is enough. 

Alana suddenly realises she is standing awkwardly in the doorway of her hotel room. 

"I wanted to try something a little different." She stammers. "Up until this point, you've had all the pleasure." 

She opens her suitcase, dumping a handful of sex toys onto the bed. Her cheeks flush before she even utters the next sentence. "I thought since we can't make love, at least we can experience pleasure at the same time."

Hannibal raises his eyebrows. He hasn't anticipated Alana being quite so...direct. 

He walks over to the bed and picks up one of the toys she's thrown there: a small bright pink vibrator. 

"I don't recall you owning any of these when you and I were lovers. Margot must have opened your..." He pauses long enough to let the none-too subtle innuendo sink in. "...mind."

"She's been alone most of her life, I suppose she's something of a connoisseur." Her eyes drift shiftily to a realistic looking dildo. Not comically large like most of the things on the market but still reasonably sized, made of pliant jelly.

It's of a certain length, Caucasian skin tone, manufactured to look uncut, with prominent veins. Hannibal puts down the bright pink vibrator and picks it up. "This looks...not unfamiliar," he says. "Did Margot choose this one for you?"

Alana unsuccessfully attempts to hide the blush rising in her cheeks. "N-no. She prefers less realistic toys." Her face is now scarlet.

"Hmm. So this one is yours." He turns it in his hands, enjoying her blush. "It rather looks like mine."

Somehow Alana's face colours even further. "We had some good times. Sometimes I like to..." She swallows hard "remember them."

"I see." He tests the toy's texture and firmness, raises his eyebrows, and returns it to her bedspread without comment.

Alana releases a sigh, attempting to calm herself. Somehow his tacit approval of her substitute for him has her hormones screaming. 

She approaches Hannibal, fingers of one hand caressing his prickly cheek, the other resting on his broad chest. 

Her eyes are wide with lust, and she drinks him in for a long beat before she speaks in a whisper: "You should probably go into the bathroom now." It is a warning, not a suggestion.

Hannibal wonders, fleetingly, what would happen if he stayed right here by the bed. Would Alana carry on with what she so obviously intends to do, with him as an audience? Or would she attempt actively to seduce him? At this moment, she looks capable of either, and it's not prudent to stay to find out. 

He wonders how soundproof the bathroom walls are. Her fingers have continued to caress his cheek, and her other hand is very, very slowly trailing down his chest. "How will I know when it's safe to emerge?"

"You'll know." She winks at him as he retreats, not even waiting for the bathroom door to close behind him before she begins to undress. 

First the Ralph Lauren blazer is dropped carelessly to the floor, followed by the hastily-unbuttoned Country Road shirt and Levis. 

Soon Alana is clad only in her underwear; black lace. She cups her breasts, dragging the rough fabric over her sensitive nipples. She suckles them through the lace, imagining Hannibal's expert tongue in place of her own as she backs against the bed, dropping down onto the mattress. 

She leans back, a fantasy of Hannibal looming over her, pushing aside her panties.

"Please," she begs him, hips rising to meet his fingers, which are really her own, which spread her wetness deliciously over her clit. His gaze is intense, drinking in every frustration.

Her whimper is pronounced but still pleading. "Don't tease me, Hannibal. I need you to fuck me." 

She forces herself to hold out a few more torturous seconds, slipping the dildo that is not-Hannibal up through her slit, rubbing the head of it against her clitoris, just the way he used to tease her. 

He wears a smug expression in her mind’s eye as he lines up against her entrance. 

"Fuck, Hannibal!" She cries as she slowly slides the dildo home, hoping he can hear her through the thin bathroom wall. One hand grasps the base of the dildo, thrusting it doggedly against her G-spot until she comes with a cry. 

But she's not even close to done. Hannibal never let her get away with only having one orgasm and as the first recedes she picks up the pace, her other hand madly rubbing her clit. 

"Oh god please, Hannibal." She croons, her movements growing ragged as she loses control. Her final cry is louder than the rest and echoes in the empty room. 

"Fuck yes, Hannibal, YES! Oh FUCK YES!" She feels a rush of wetness between her legs, and rides out her orgasm, slowly relaxing back against the pillows, not-Hannibal still inside of her.

She's already taking off her clothes when he steps into the bathroom, and he quickly closes the door, but not before he's seen how eager her hands are. 

Hannibal stands alone in the empty bathroom. 

This is...not how he expected to end his day, producing sperm on demand for a woman who is making love to a silicone simulacrum of him in the next room. 

It's like something one of his former patients would have come up with, he thinks, and for a moment he feels nostalgia for the good old days of being a practicing psychiatrist with a useful mien of professional distance and clarity. 

From the bedroom, he hears a distinct feminine moan. Hannibal bites his lip. This is not, technically, infidelity. But it is a great deal more than clinical artificial insemination, and it has involved a very large amount of mutual verbal foreplay. 

Hannibal considers his options. He could, just possibly, escape. Alana is so occupied that she might not even notice. But she might also interpret that as him backing out of their agreement, and that is a risk he does not want to take. 

He could not produce the requested sperm, just wait here and do his best not to listen to her uninhibited moans and cries (and he remembers very well that Alana has never been one to suffer ecstasy silently). 

But a perhaps foolish masculine pride forbids him from not delivering… and besides, what if he is wrong and she isn't yet pregnant? From the bedroom, he hears a distinct whimper of his name. 

Hannibal makes up his mind quickly. He turns on the shower and strips. With any luck, the pounding water will drown out Alana's noises. He steps beneath the spray, closes his eyes, and thinks about what he wants to do with Will when they are reunited. 

He imagines arriving home to find Will in the shower. Dropping his own clothes and surprising him there by stepping into the small, white-tiled space with him. Will turns, shampoo in his hair, soap in his hands, and barely has time to smile a welcome before Hannibal has pressed him up against the wall of the shower, kissing him savagely, his body hard and urgent against Will's slick skin. 

He imagines tugging Will's head back and biting hard at his neck, leaving marks, sucking the water as it beads on him. Reaching down to grasp him and pump, urgently, needing him as desperate as Hannibal is. No finesse, just the raw hunger of reunion. 

Through the shower walls and the falling of water he hears Alana moan and plead, and with his eyes closed and his skin hot, he translates her voice into Will's, begging him, and in his mind Hannibal hoists Will's legs up, curls them around his waist. 

Hard, and fast and deep, and the fantasy is so complete that when Alana yells out her final climax Hannibal grinds out, "Will!" and barely makes it out of the shower in time to capture his semen in the omnipresent cup.

Alana makes no move to get up; no doubt Hannibal is aware of the heights of pleasure she has reached. She's never been what you'd call quiet, and growing used to the spacious Verger mansion has hardly helped the matter. 

She does ease the dildo out from between her legs, putting it aside to clean later. For the first time in hours she feels in control of herself, not at the mercy of Hannibal's every word or look. 

As she settles into the mattress she realises her cheeks are wet, and she hurries to dry them before Hannibal exits the bathroom, unaware of the streaks of mascara that remain.

Intricacies of syringe performed, Hannibal dries himself and puts on his trousers, pulls on his shirt, though he is hot in the steamy bathroom so he leaves it loose and open. 

He listens carefully before he knocks on the door from the inside. "Are you finished?"

Alana could stand to bask awhile longer, but Hannibal's impatient rap on the door has a somewhat sobering effect on her. 

She perches on the edge of the bed for a minute before answering in a tired tone. "You can come out now."

He emerges, syringe in hand. The room is fragranced copiously with Alana's aroused scent and she sits on the side of the bed wearing only lace underwear, her face and chest flushed, her hair a tangle, sweat glowing on her skin. Her toy perches on the bedside table, obviously well-used. 

But there are traces of mascara around her eyes, as if she has been crying. Hannibal approaches her, asking with concern, "Are you all right?"

She shakes off the memory of their post-coital cuddling. "I think so." Alana reassures him. "I'm just going to miss having you to talk to. Even without the flirting, I had fun today."

He sits beside her. "Even without torturing you, I had fun too." He hands her the syringe. "May I stay for this one?"

"You can do it if you like. I promise I won't read anything into it." She chuckles softly.

He swallows. He wants to. 

Even though he is convinced that Alana is already pregnant, that she in fact conceived the first time they tried, when he had pictured in his mind the three of them together. 

Even though this time is just an act of reassurance and residual closeness. He'd like to feel that he was involved in the creation of this child, that in the moment of conception he was truly present. Not just the person filling the syringe. 

He takes it back from her hand. "Lie down," he says gently.

Alana nods, breathing deeply to calm herself as she lies down, drawing her legs up to allow Hannibal access. It feels at once intimate yet strangely clinical compared to times in the past when they have found themselves in this physical position 

Yet despite Alana’s memories of that past intimacy, and her swollen sex, she has sated her desire for now and does not tremble with need as Hannibal approaches her with the syringe.

She still wears her black lace panties, and Hannibal gently draws them off. Somehow leaving them on would give this procedure more of a sexual edge. 

Gently, he guides her bare legs into the best position. His touch is not the clinical one of a doctor, or the heated one of a lover, but somewhere between: the caring touch of a friend. 

He makes sure the syringe is warm (she herself clearly doesn't require lubrication) and glances at her face. "Are you ready?"

Alana looks seriously at Hannibal for a moment before nodding. "I'm ready." She says with a slightly nervous smile.

He nods. Gently he slips the syringe into her. Holding her gaze with his eyes, he presses the plunger. 

Then he slides a pillow under her bottom, arranges her legs comfortably, and stretches out next to her. He draws her head to rest on his naked chest, above his heart, and smooths back her hair, his arm around her.

Under Hannibal's touch Alana feels closer to him than perhaps she ever has before. There is a mutual joy and awe in what they are creating, expressed without words. 

Alana is pleasantly surprised when Hannibal curls up beside her; she knows how badly he misses Will, and had wrongly expected him to flee as soon as his role was done. 

She can't help but nuzzle his clean skin, draping her arm across his stomach. It is familiar without being sexual, much like his rearrangement of her heavy limbs to accommodate the syringe.

"We've made a baby together," he murmurs, his voice a deep rumble in his chest under her ear. "You feel it, don't you?"

Alana nods, tears of happiness welling in her eyes. "It's going to be one very lucky baby with you and Will as its parents."

"We are going to be lucky parents." He tucks her hair behind her ear. "Now all the hard work is yours. I won't be able to stay in touch, for obvious reasons. But perhaps I can see you once or twice during your pregnancy." He knows it's risky to suggest it. But he craves seeing Alana rounded and blooming with his child.

"I can arrange that. Perhaps we can do the five month scan together, find out the sex?" Alana is equally eager to share the pregnancy with Hannibal, knowing how much he wants the child. "We also need to talk about where we deliver the baby, if you still want to be there, that is. Obviously there's going to come a point where I can't fly." She hates to tarnish the intimacy of the current situation but she can't help being a thinker, a planner.

"Alana," he says gently, "for obvious reasons I can't plan ahead, or agree to be in a specific place at a stated time. I will do my best to be in touch, but it will have to be in a way of my own choosing and it may be unexpected. It would be very kind of you to keep me updated of your health and the baby's progress through an untraceable channel: may I suggest that you take out a small ad, with veiled wording, in the New York Times international edition on the same day each month? Perhaps the same day as today? You wouldn't be able to contact me urgently that way, but it is a link. As for the birth...we will arrange that closer to the time."

Alana pouts at Hannibal's words, though she knows he's right. "I'll do that then." She knows he must be frustrated not being able to monitor her more closely. "I'm sure Margot will take excellent care of me." She adds by way of reassurance.

"I'm sure she will. And that you will have excellent private healthcare from the Vergers' substantial resources." Wistfully, he adds, "I would love to deliver the baby. I haven't delivered a baby in a very long time."

"I don't see any reason why you shouldn't," She reaches for his large hand, lacing her fingers with his as she imagines them guiding the slippery infant from her body. "Assuming your skills are still up to scratch." She teases.

"I shall have to find some women and deliver their babies, for practice." He muses. "Being present at a birth is not unlike being present at a death. Both are transitions of great moment, with sacred meaning." He smiles. "We shall see what we can arrange. Meanwhile, take your vitamins. Eat healthily. Exercise. How will you explain this pregnancy to others?"

"I was thinking of just saying I'm being surrogate for a friend. It's true enough and will minimise the fuss people make."

"For an old friend." He kisses the top of her head.

Alana smiles, snuggling closer, contented. "For an old friend. I like that." She glances up at him "Please look after yourself, and Will."

"I'll do my best. We lead a dangerous life. But it's a life of great beauty, and great love." He pauses, holding her, feeling the moment. "Then this is the end of our Czech affair. But it isn't goodbye, merely au revoir."

"Even so, it's a day I'll never forget. It's almost a new beginning for us. A new chapter." She props herself up on one elbow. "And however dangerous the life you lead, I can safely say I'd rather have you in mine. As distant as that may have to be."

He smiles gently at her. "That night in my kitchen in Baltimore. I hoped you would make the choice that meant that I didn't have to kill you. I'm glad we've had the chance to make new choices. New chances. I vastly prefer you alive."

I vastly prefer being alive." She settles back against him. "I'd say I regret my decision. I know I have in the past. But if everything leads to today, I suppose I shouldn't regret that choice."

"Our baby will be beautiful," he whispers to her. And then he kisses her forehead, and smooths her hair, and holds her close for a long moment. 

Then he disengages from her, and stands. 

"Au revoir, my old friend."

"Goodbye Hannibal." She smiles broadly at him, even as her eyes begin to spill over. "Damn these hormones." She laughs.

He knows it isn't only hormones. As he knows that many more tears will be shed in the course of this arrangement and this new stage of their friendship. It will not be easy to Alana to give up this child; and it may not be easy for him to cope with the love he already feels for it. 

With the tip of his finger, he touches one of the tears that has escaped to roll down her cheek. Then he kisses his finger, tasting her happiness and sorrow. "Farewell," he says, and swiftly, he is gone.

Alana watches him go, drinking in every final glimpse. When the door closes behind Hannibal she lies back on the bed, staring at the ceiling for a while, trying to comprehend the enormity of what she and Hannibal have just done. 

She doesn't cry, only waits for a feeling of numbness to muffle her emotions. 

Once she feels she can comprehend more than her and Hannibal and the four walls of the bland hotel room, she rings the airline and moves her ticket to that night. 

She is similarly detached as she packs her suitcase, though she pauses to slip in the delicate gold earrings and set out the scarf for later. 

She dresses, not bothering to shower, and sends Margot a message: 

"Will be home in the morning." 

Before she leaves the room She glances around at the non-descript decor. If those walls could talk... she muses, and turns away, leaving Prague behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! What a ride it's been to write this! We had a great time doing it and a sequel is definitely on the cards. We hope you've had fun reading it!

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 2 coming soon (think this weekend!)


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